


Not a Friend Worth Noting

by imperfectkreis



Series: Rufus Cloelius [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Sex, College of Winterhold - Freeform, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Racism, Teasing, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7917601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rufus calls himself a diplomat; he calls himself the Dragonborn. Onmund doesn't believe either of these things. All he knows for certain is that the Imperial has enrolled at the College of Winterhold, without technically knowing a blasted thing about magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Onmund looks up from his tome when a shadow casts across its pages. Standing before him is the newest arrival to the College, an Imperial man, of no obvious privilege or defect. Onmund has yet to actually witness Rufus in classes.

“May I help you?” Onmund places a ribbon across the page to mark his place.

Rufus shrugs his shoulders, his too-large robes sliding over his narrow frame. He is tall, as tall as Onmund himself, with olive skin and dark hair. His nose comes to an unpleasant hook, but otherwise his features are attractive enough, dark stubble cutting across his lip and chin. 

Onmund finds most other mages to be either satisfyingly plump or delicately frail. Rufus is closer to the latter than the former. Onmund believes himself outside such distinctions. His father wanted, quite desperately, for him to take to the axe, or some other large, steel weapon, as any good, warm-blooded Nord should.

His parents were disappointed, of course, at his decision to join the College, instead of fighting in Ulfric’s war. Disappointment is perhaps too mild a word. Onmund assumes he has no home to which he could return, given the chance. While his parents’ disgust wounds him, there is nothing to be done about it now.

“I was just looking for company, I suppose,” Rufus finally admits. 

“I’m afraid I am a poor conversation partner.” Onmund’s studies can wait. While his courses at the College are difficult, they are not impossible. J’Zargo teases him mercilessly, insisting that because he is a Nord, he must work twice as hard for half the profit, his people having beat magic out of their blood. Onmund knows that’s not true. Even if Nords rarely study magic, that does not mean its powers are alien to them.

“I am a spectacular one,” Rufus exclaims, “So it will all even out in the end!” He sits across from Onmund on the long wooden bench. The bag he has brought with him, he deposits on the table. “In fact, I was hoping you could help me. Ah,” Rufus looks away, then back at Onmund. “I hope it is not too presumptuous, but you did not grow up in a family particularly steeped in magic?”

Onmund snickers, “What may have given you that impression?”

Rufus smiles back, “I’ve been to Skyrim a few times before, in my youth. Nords are a bit crass, don’t you think? Present company excluded, of course.”

Tilting his head to one side, Onmund feels the need to defend his people, though they have so rarely defended him. “It is a harder life in the North, compared to Cyrodiil.”

Rufus tisks, “What makes you assume I’m from the Capital? There are Imperials everywhere.” There is that smile again, when Onmund does not immediately respond. “Alright, alright, you’ve got me.” Rufus sighs dramatically, “I was raised in Cyrodiil City, you can probably smell the political corruption on me.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Onmund tries to be polite, though he is not sure of Rufus’ intentions. 

“I only ask because my family was not magically inclined either.”

Onmund nods. While he wishes to remain on good terms with his fellow students, he’s not yet comfortable sharing personal matters with any of them. His treatment by his family is his burden alone. And part of him still wishes not to openly besmirch their name. 

“You’re not following, are you?” Rufus asks, his eyes wide. 

It was difficult to tell at first, because Rufus is tall, because he has stubble along his jaw, and because he speaks with great ease, but he is quiet young. Perhaps just past twenty. Onmund can only now tell because of the lack of fine lines around his eyes and mouth. All smooth, delicate skin. 

“I’m afraid I’m not,” Onmund replies.

With a huff, Rufus tries again. “I am not a sorcerer. Not even a little bit.”

Shaking his head, Onmund points out the obvious, “You would have had to perform a spell to be admitted to the College.”

“I know, I know,” Rufus tears at his hair. “And I did. I read a book, spent all night with that damn thing, until I could produce a little bit of light between my hands. It was enough to satisfy Faralda. But now I’ve already forgotten the spell!”

Onmund honestly does not understand where this conversation is going, “But, well, yes, this is a place of learning. So perhaps she saw promise in you?” While he has some sympathy for Rufus, if he has already forgotten a spell he learned two days ago, if he has not been long-dedicated to the art of magic, why is he attending the College at all?

“You don’t know?” Rufus is all wide-eyed innocence again. Though his irises are quite dark, they remain as expressive as blue or green.

“Know what?”

Rufus shuffles on the bench until his legs are crossed on the long plank. He sits up straight, palms on the table. “I am the Dragonborn.”

Onmund laughs. Of course he’s heard the rumors, that the Dragonborn of Nord legend has been found. They slayed one of the horrid beasts just outside of Whiterun, absorbing its soul and offering their services to Jarl Balgruuf, at least for the time being. He has also heard many rumors regarding the demeanor and appearance of this fabled Dovahkiin. None of them mention a scrawny Imperial. 

Rufus tugs at his hair again. “Alright, fine. Don’t believe me. Maybe it’s better that way. But the Faculty here believe that I am. And I know that I am. So that was enough to accept me to the College. But they will kick me out, as soon as they realize I’m utter shit at magic.”

“So,” Onmund can’t help but smile, “Say you can shout with the voice of a dragon. What use do you have for Magelight?” He still doesn’t believe Rufus, but this conversation is nonetheless amusing.

“I don’t,” he hisses. “I know how to fight well enough already.” Rufus’ eyes dart around the library again. “Is there somewhere more private we can speak?”

Onmund knows of no better place, but if it will pacify Rufus, he does not mind moving to a nominally more secluded location. Gathering up his books, he shoves them into his bag before standing. Silently, Rufus follows him out into the stairwell and then outside to the courtyard.

The air is brightly cold, only a light dusting of snow in the air. Lovely weather, all things considered. Onmund considers taking Rufus to his dormitory, but that is not particularly private either. Instead, he cuts towards one of the archways that will let them look out upon the sea. While it is open to the air, few students or instructors dally outside this time of year.

Rufus looks positively freezing, pulling up his fur-lined hood and trying to keep every inch of his skin concealed. Southerners. It would serve him well to wear heavier garments under his robes, if he chills so easily. 

“Say what you wish,” Onmund prompts, looking out at the frozen waters. He can hear Rufus’ teeth start to clatter. 

“The Thalmor are here, I’ve tracked one in particular to the College.”

“Ancano?” Onmund knows him, the Arch-Mage’s advisor. He has been on the College grounds for some time now, before Onmund was admitted, some months ago.

Under his robe, Rufus nods, “Yes, and others creep at the gates.”

“Why do you care?” Onmund asks. As an Imperial, Rufus should care little of Thalmor interference. After all, it is his people who struck the Accord. It is his people who now wish to prevent Skyrim’s freedom. 

Onmund has made no accusation, but Rufus clearly takes it as such, “Why wouldn’t I?” His face is still hidden beneath his hood. “The Thalmor are snakes in our home. We should not tolerate them.”

“I did not think Skyrim your home,” Onmund wishes Rufus would speak more plainly.

“I think the entirety of the Empire our home. Do you really think you are so different from me?”

Onmund shrugs his shoulders, “Many Nords blame Cyrodiil. It is your treaty that let the elves in.”

Rufus snickers, “I did not think you a racist man, Onmund. I have judged poorly.” Hunching his shoulders, Rufus steps away from the balcony. 

Reaching out, Onmund grabs Rufus by the shoulder. He does not think himself prejudiced, and cannot conceive where Rufus got that idea. They were discussing politics, nothing more. “What? I merely stated fact?”

Facing one another now, Onmund can see how the color has drained from Rufus’ cheeks with the cold. “‘Let the elves in,’” Rufus parrots back, “There have always been Mer in Cyrodiil, in Skyrim, everywhere. Just as men have been. But if you have separatist sympathies as well...I understand your being unwilling to help me.”

Does he? Onmund has not thought much of Ulfric’s war since arriving at the College. At least, not in regards to his own position. Yes, he wishes to worship Talos, as any Nord would. And the Empire forbids that. Beyond this one point, he is inarticulate. 

“There are Nine.”

Rufus smiles softly, “Of course.” His lips part, they are full, plush, “I only ask that this conversation is held in confidence.”

Onmund promises. He does not know what Rufus intends, but it is at least clear that he does not wish to aid the Thalmor. 

“I wish only the same.”

“Of course,” Rufus takes his leave.

\--

Onmund has a Restoration lesson in the afternoon. He does not expect Rufus to attend, but there he is, his hood still up and his hands bare. If it is true, that he knows no spells, surely now his deficiencies will be revealed. 

“I would like to remind you, once again--” Colette begins. 

Truthfully, Onmund cares little for the Restoration school. He knows of healing magic’s usefulness, but he is simply more drawn to Destruction, lightning in particular, the way it can course through him, tasting like ozone on his tongue. 

Colette asks them to try and cast a Lesser Ward. Onmund knows the spell, but not particularly well. It is useful, true, and should be part of any sorcerer’s arsenal, no matter what their preferred school. 

She asks them to pair up, so they might cast a simple spell against each other’s Wards. The objective is the Ward, not the Destruction spell, so they are not to harm one another, even if the Ward falters.

Not managing to turn to the other students fast enough, Onmund ends up paired with Rufus, which means he will neither be able to test his Ward, nor send skittering sparks against another. The whole exercise is a wash. 

“Well,” Rufus claps his hands together, “Shall we begin?”

Onmund blinks, weighing his options, “You said--”

“Nothing of the sort, now, put up your Ward,” Rufus cuts him off.

Onmund casts the spell, though he realizes as the plume of magic departs from his hands that his execution is very weak. Raising his hand, Rufus means to cast against it, but his fire spell is little more than a puff of white smoke. Onmund sighs. This is a disaster.

“Now, I'm to Ward, am I not?”

Nodding, Onmund cannot imagine what comes next. Rufus takes a deep breath, but no spell follows, not a sputter. Looking across to Onmund, he cheerfully encourages, “Well, try and break it!”

Onmund can only shake his head. There is no Ward to cast against. But Rufus winks at him, joking, “Go ahead and try.”

Mercifully, the lesson ends before Onmund’s confusion can peak. Colette dismisses them, with instructions to practice their Wards in preparation for the next lesson. Before he leaves, Rufus thanks Onmund for his help, pulling his hood back over his hair.

With lessons concluded for the day, Onmund has nowhere in particular he needs to be. If he changes out of his robes, he may go into town for an ale at the tavern. He has never attracted much attention, though the regular patrons must know he attends the College, they do not hassle him.

Returning to his quarters, he shucks his Mage robes, trading them for breeches and an appropriate tunic. He takes his cape as well, not too proud to admit that the walk into town may be cold.

Onmund leaves the hood of his cape down as he walks from the College in the waning light of evening. While it is unlikely that anyone will sit with him at dinner, he still enjoys the illusion of company. He enjoys people-watching and chatter. Though he truly loves magic, he tends to find the other mages quiet and reserved. Even J’Zargo, who loves the sound of his own voice, is rarely good company.

Perhaps he should be unsurprised to find Rufus in the tavern as well, his dark hair wild, wearing tight fitting leathers, and daggers on each hip. He sits upon one of the tables, his feet dangling towards the floor. At the center of conversation, he does not notice Onmund enter the tavern. And perhaps that is for the best.

It takes several minutes of not being served before Onmund resigns himself to approaching the bar. Whatever tale Rufus tells has all the other patrons transfixed. Even the bard has ceased his songs.

“Excuse me,” Onmund tries to keep polite, as he flags the barman’s attention.

What he gets is not merely the attention of the barman, but Rufus’ as well.

“Sorry to cut this performance short,” Rufus says. Onmund tries to pay him no mind. “My dinner companion has arrived.”

Onmund tenses, knowing what will come next.

Rufus rattles to the proprietor that they’ll take their meals and ale at the far table, thank you very much. He drops more than enough coin onto the bar before taking Onmund by the upper arm, leading him back towards the table.

Onmund means to protest, he really does, but Rufus starts talking almost immediately. “I've been waiting for you.”

“What?” They certainly had made no plans.

“Okay, alright, I wasn't. But at least now I can eat in peace.” He takes one chair for himself, flopping down and spreading his knees wide. 

“You looked to be enjoying yourself,” Onmund observes.

Rufus shakes his head, “it's exhausting you know?” The quiet song of the bard resumes. “But it's the best way to get information.”

Onmund's eyes flick from Rufus’s face, to his hands, folded on the tabletop, to his waist, where the daggers are sheathed, then back to Rufus’ face. “You’re an assassin?” As soon as Onmund says it, he wishes he could take the statement back. He covers his mouth as if that would make a bit of difference.

But Rufus only laughs, shaking his head at the suggestion. “I am a diplomat, like my parents before me.”

One of the serving lads brings their ales, as well as bread to go with their stew. Rufus takes a sip of his before winding his finger along the mug’s rim. 

“But...the knives? Are those particularly, diplomatic?”

“I always try to cut with my tongue first.”

“The Thalmor agent you spoke of before…”

Rufus cuts him off with another laugh, but his words bite, “Not here.”

Their stew arrives.

“Eat.”

Rufus asks trifling questions about the College over their meal. Onmund is only bold enough to ask what Cyrodiil City is like. “Large, noisy, cramped, and gorgeous,” Rufus replies.

Reaching forward across the table, Rufus brushes his fingers over top of Onmund’s hand, casually suggesting that he has a room here at the tavern? Onmund swallows the last of his ale thickly. “Do you not have quarters in the dormitory?”

“Of course,” his thumb traces over Onmund’s knuckle again, “but we are already here.”

“We?”

“Do not be obtuse.” Rufus rolls his eyes.

Onmund should not. He should not want to either, but he knows well enough that he does not find Rufus’ form objectionable. His conjecture about the Imperial’s build appears to be quite accurate. His hips are narrow, his arms and legs thin. His mouth is almost pretty in its fullness. It is fine to want, an entirely different matter to act. Were Rufus a stranger, perhaps. A treasured friend, of course. But as they are, Onmund can think of no one less appropriate. 

“I do not think it wise,” Onmund pushes away from the table, intending to return to the College. While the food has been good, he is not quite sure about the company.

Before he can leave, Rufus takes hold of his wrist. “I meant only to speak in private.”

Onmund feels his face flushing deeply. Oh. Of course, Rufus has wished to speak to him alone in regards to his question about the Thalmor. It was not a proposition, and perhaps was only phrased as such to be subtle. Onmund knows he himself lacks subtlety.

“Yes,” Onmund croaks, still quite embarrassed with himself. 

He follows closely behind as Rufus leads the way to the rented room. Without a word, he begins to strip from his armor, pulling the leather away. Onmund averts his eyes until he he sure Rufus has donned his softer shirt. He can hear Rufus snicker, the Imperial has done this on purpose, as a way to tease. 

Flopping down onto the bed, Rufus pulls his knees to his chest. He looks quite young again. In his armor, well, it would perhaps be able to mistakes Rufus for twenty-five. But dressed in soft slacks and a cotton tunic, he is undeniably young.

“You may take the chair if you'd like?”

“Will I be here long?” Onmund asks.

Rufus shrugs his shoulders, “As long as you would like.”

Onmund decides on taking the chair. He rests his hands on the tops of his thighs. “About the Thalmor?”

“About them, indeed.” Rufus draws a bottle of wine and two glasses from the small bedside table. He must have stashed them there earlier. He pours out both portions, not bothering to ask Onmund if he would like a glass. Only after Onmund has sipped, does Rufus speak again. “No more of this obfuscation. It is plain enough you are an honest man.”

Onmund feels distinctly that he has been insulted. 

“I should say, first and foremost, my heart is always with the Empire. I believe it to be our best hope for survival, and Ulfric’s war is folly. So, do not for a moment, doubt my ultimate objective. Do not mistake me for a man who wants this civil war.”

“I would think nothing of the sort,” Onmund assures. Though he keeps his own position private.

“This business of being the Dragonborn,” he smiles, “I find it as silly as you do. But it is also true I can do the things prophesied, so...I'm not sure.”

“You can shout….”

Rufus only nods.

Onmund will believe it when he sees. He cannot imagine the voice of a dragon coming forth from Rufus’ thin neck. 

“I intend to carry out what I planned all along. Which is to disrupt Thalmor activities in Skyrim. I am not a soldier. I cannot fight for the Empire in full plate, nor do I wish to fight against those who should stand with us. Ulfric has corrupted their passions…”

“So you are a loyalist, who wishes to sabotage your allies?”

Rufus hisses, “The Thalmor are not our allies. They are the yoke around our neck. They laugh at us, as we fight this petty war. But yes, I wish to bother them as thoroughly as I can. It is why I traveled to Skyrim in the first place.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I do not need your assistance in...bothering the Thalmor. But I need it to stay at the College. To pass as any other student. If your professors know I am this Dragonborn, so does Ancano. He will send word to his superiors that I am here. And soon enough, it will be apparent that I have no aptitude for magic and they will question why I remain. I need to learn enough, or make it look as if I have learned enough, to put their suspicions to rest.” Rufus sighs deeply, grabbing at his hair. “I was hoping, because you were able to learn, despite coming from a family where magic is little valued, that perhaps you could help me.”

“The smoke, during Colette’s lesson?”

“A tripwire in my robes. I crafted it hastily before the lecture. It works only once.” Rufus smiles, “but I have remembered Magelight! So that is progress.”

Onmund considered Rufus’ proposal. “I told you I worship Talos. Does that not concern you?”

“Your chosen Divine is none of my business,” Rufus huffs, “You may worship a hundred divinities, I do not care.”

“And to whom do you devote yourself?” Onmund is genuinely curious, having never heard another speak so flippantly about the Divines.

“To myself,” he rolls his eyes, “and perhaps, a bit, to Stendarr,” Rufus admits, a faint blush coming high on the apples of his cheeks.

Onmund finishes the last of his wine, keeping the cup tucked into his hands. “I will help you.”

\--

Rufus vanishes. 

Onmund does not see him at the College for one week, then two. He dares not ask what has happened, if he was expelled, or left of his own accord. By the third week, he tries to push thoughts of his promise out of his mind. Perhaps the Thalmor know. Perhaps they are torturing Rufus for information. Perhaps he will speak Onmund’s name. A possible collaborator in their midst. 

But quite suddenly, without ceremony, Rufus returns, nipping in too late to a Destruction lesson to be asked to perform any magic at all. Onmund cannot figure if he should be relieved or concerned.

“Are you busy?” Rufus asks him as they exit the lecture hall.

“Where have you been?”

Rufus smiles sloppily, “Did you miss me?”

Onmund can only laugh.

“I was recalled to Whiterun, is all.” Rufus threads his arm around Onmund’s holding close as they walk. “And now I am ready to resume my studies.”

“You are close to the Jarl there, are you not?”

“He is the one who started this Dragonborn business,” Rufus wrinkles his nose. “But if you have the time, perhaps you can help me?”

Onmund says nothing more. He did make a promise, after all. He must consider where they might go to practice in private. Anywhere too obvious, and it will be quite clear how inept Rufus truly is. 

The dormitories are out of the question, too public. And the libraries are no good either. 

There is, of course, the Midden. But students are forbidden from entry. What the consequences are, Onmund is unsure. He considers it, for a moment, before deciding against committing any additional infractions.

“Do you have a heavier cloak?” he asks.

“Yes, of course, I left it in the Hall of Attainment.”

Onmund is surprised to find Rufus’ things unpacked in one of the tiny dormitory cells. Perhaps this time, he really does mean to stay at the College. He grabs a second cloak, throwing it over his shoulders, before asking Onmund if it should be sufficient? How is Onmund to know how well Rufus can brave the weather?

They do not travel terribly far, leaving the College and skirting along the coastline. Were someone watching them from Winterhold, they could certainly still see. But it would be difficult to hear them, or make out exactly what it is they are doing on the ice. If Rufus’ tongue is as clever as he claims, it should be easy enough to devise some excuse.

“It is quite beautiful,” Rufus says, staring out across the sea, “if you can stand the cold.”

“No one can hear us here,” indeed, Onmund can barely hear himself over the sound of the wind. They dip down under an overcropping of rock, which should at least keep the snow off their shoulders. Not truly a cave, but better than nothing. “Is this better, princess?”

Rufus beams, unaffected by the nickname, “Quite.”

They settle down on the floor, Rufus offering no more complaints, though even Onmund must admit the ground is freezing. “What spells do you wish to learn?” He is not convinced he will be the greatest teacher. But perhaps Rufus had a point, that Onmund, unlike the others, learned his first spells on his own, with no assistance from his family. 

Clapping his hands together, Rufus exclaims, “Whichever spell you like best.”

“I am still quite a novice myself...but…” Onmund raises his hands, focusing on his fingertips, he feels the static rising on his left hand, heady and sharp, he lets the bolt slip from his left, before catching it in his right. The sparks are flashy, but not yet damaging, a nuisance more than anything.

“Amazing!” Rufus exclaims.

Onmund shakes his head, “Don't patronize me. You've seen more impressive magic before.”

Rufus’s smile doesn't fade, “But not so very close. One seldom has the time to admire the mechanics of it when such displays are aimed to kill.”

“I thought you said you were a diplomat?” Onmund isn't naive enough to believe that is the whole truth.

“Diplomacy is dangerous,” Rufus quips.

Onmund sighs, “Have you read the text on Sparks?”

Rufus shakes his head, “Only Magelight and,” he pauses, “healing?”

“Can you cast healing?”

Rufus snorts, it's an undignified noise. “How many times must I explain? No. I cannot cast it but I have read it.”

“I should have had you read Sparks.”

“Perhaps I should have selected a better teacher,” Rufus teases, but there's no malice in his voice.

Onmund cannot teach him Healing. Sparks will have to do. “When you cast Magelight, can you feel the magicka in you? How it spreads and pools at your fingers?”

“Every time I feel as if I'm being completely drained. As if I do not have the reserves for anything more.”

“Magicka is built over time. Well, your access to it. If you practice, it will grow. Only you have had no practice.”

Rufus pushes his hair away from his eyes, “And how did you practice, when you were young and empty?”

Onmund shrugs his shoulders, “In my aunt and uncle’s barn, when I should have been tending to the cows. I'd found books, hidden in boxes, under the hay troughs. They'd been used to elevate the feed bins off the ground.” Onmund smiles, remembering the musty, almost rotten smell of the pages. It should not have been pleasant, but the memory is dear to him.

“And you had a talent for it?” Rufus wraps his arms around his legs, resting his chin on bony knees. 

“To this day, I am not sure. The others tease me about being slow to learn.”

Rufus scoffs, “I'd like to see them do better, under the same conditions. It's quite marvelous what you've accomplished.” Rufus sounds impossibly proud of Onmund. As if his successes are Rufus’ own. “But I suppose I should try.” He lets his knees fall open, “How do I begin?”

It is difficult, without the spell book. Onmund has Sparks largely in his muscle memory. It does not come as easily as breathing, but as soon as he starts to think on the mechanics of the spell, he feels oddly as if he knows nothing. But Rufus is patient, trying time and time again to make the magic come, to match Onmund’s hands.

“I do not think your position is the problem,” Onmund shakes his head.

“Then perhaps it is simply beyond me?” Rufus frowns.

Onmund considers their options. “Who is it, in this world, you wish to protect?”

“I'm not sure I understand the question,” Rufus recoils slightly.

“You want to...bother the Thalmor. It must be to protect someone? Keep them safe.”

“I told you...the Empire…I want to help my people. Your people too.” He sounds so earnest, Onmund almost drops the question.

“But there must be someone, in particular. Many people love an ideal, few people act, as you are hoping to act.”

Rufus smiles softly, “My brother. He is quite young yet. If I succeed, maybe then, he needn't...become a diplomat as well.”

“Think of him, defending him, before you cast.”

Rufus nods solemnly, drawing his hands together again. His lashes close, pressing against the tops of his cheeks as he concentrates. Onmund holds his breath, as they both wait for lightning to materialize between Rufus’ palms.

There is a long nothing, then a burst of electricity, small, and humble, but it is there. Onmund smiles, despite his tiredness. Rufus opens his eyes. He's beaming, launching himself across the space between them to throw his arms around Onmund’s shoulders. “You're a genius!”

Rufus is nothing, if not a flatterer. 

\--

Tolfdir summons them to Saarthal, a special lesson for those still in apprentice lessons. J’zargo scoffs, claiming that he has spent too long already without taking the examinations he could quite surly pass. Brelyna snickers, calling him nothing more than a silly kitten. They will have their exams in time.

Onmund is not so excited. He suspects Saarthal is their test. And he is not convinced he is skilled enough to pass. In lessons, he is competent. But it is true what the others say, it takes him longer to master each incantation.

And Rufus? Rufus is….fucked.

Oh he is able to pull off Sparks, and the glow of Healing materializes, a warm, dry pulsation. But he has yet to be able to actually seal a wound with it. On the other hand, his ability with Magelight is top notch, really. 

Not as if that is at all useful.

Tolfdir tells them to explore, learn from their surroundings. There are great lessons to be learned here. Paths to walk, become lost upon, and found.

The entire expedition makes Onmund profoundly uncomfortable. These are the graves of his ancestors. They should be left in peace. Instead, a bunch of slack jawed students, not even Nords! Are trespassing through their final resting place. It's not right.

But, helplessly, Onmund feels there is nothing for him to say. No true objection that will halt their excavation. Defeated, he tugs at his cloak. Underground, without the whipping wind, it is too warm.

As if materializing from nowhere, Rufus appears beside him. His cloak is thin and dark, unsuited for the weather outside. Even now, he must be cold. Onmund removes his outer cloak, draping it over Rufus’ shoulders. Rufus does not object, pulling the garment tight around his neck.

“Tolfdir says we should go up ahead. Arniel Gane has work for us.” Rufus keeps close to Onmund’s side, brushing against him as they transition from the open stairwell and into the tunnels deeper in the burial site. “You look unwell,” Rufus frowns.

“We should not be disturbing the dead.”

“The dead are just that, dead. They do not know.”

Onmund's mouth falls open. He does wish that Rufus would cease saying such blasphemous things so causally. Certainly, if he is the Dovahkiin, he has see the Draugr, and knows the dead of Skyrim walk.

They reach Gane. He appears somewhat displeased with them already. Perhaps he was hoping for more competent students to be sent his way. Surely the instructors talk, and the Nord and Imperial are far from the best students in their cohort. Perhaps Onmund should thank Rufus for consistently performing worse than he. 

“Well then, this excavation site is teeming with magical artefacts,” Gane explains, as if Onmund would be oblivious to the importance of this place. “Go along ahead, see what you can find. But be careful. Things are not always as they seem,” he warns.

Rufus promises Gane with all sincerity that they will perform their assigned task to the best of their ability. He grabs Onmund’s wrist and pulls him away, down the next open corridor. 

Only now does Onmund notice that Rufus’ steps don’t make a sound. As they scan the chambers for magical runes and amulets and scraps, Onmund can only hear his own boots against the stone.

“Ah!” Rufus exclaims, “here we go.” 

The amulet sits atop a stone pillar in the center of the room, glowing faintly with long-stored sorcery. There is a faint attraction there, a pull that makes Onmund want to touch, magic speaking across the vibrating air.

“Don't touch it,” Onmund warns.

Rufus shakes his head, but listens, “You're the expert.” 

Onmund wishes Rufus would stop saying that.

Reaching out himself, Onmund cannot detect anything else out of place, just a glimmer of unintelligible speech.

No sooner than he grazes his fingers against the tarnished surface does the force barrier materialize around them, locking he and Rufus into a narrow box around the pillar.

Rufus looks quite pleased with himself, clapping his hands together and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “This is fun, isn't it?”

Onmund groans. “Gane is going to murder us.”

“I highly doubt that,” Rufus chirps, “besides, I'll just murder him first.”

Glaring at Rufus, Onmund finally says what he's been thinking for a long time. “You're not a diplomat.”

“And that is a conversation for another time,” Rufus punctuates. He’ll say nothing more where others may hear him.

They call out for help, assuming someone will hear them, eventually. They have not traveled very deep into the tunnels. 

When no one answers their call, Rufus starts pacing, though he only has the space to take a couple steps before bumping into Onmund, quite on purpose.

“You know, this is quite like one of those trashy romances that are so very popular.” Just when Rufus’ spirits looked to be flagging, he's picked up again. “Yes, perhaps we will be stuck here for hours. The prolonged closeness, the creeping warmth of each other’s bodies, well, it will simply drive us mad! You are the Nord, so naturally it will be your resolve that breaks first.” Rufus sighs dramatically. “Or perhaps I will kiss the corner of your mouth, just so, driving you and your wild Northern lust out of control, so you pin my smaller, softer body against the pillar and take me like the wild beast you are!”

Onmund can't take him seriously for a moment, “Oh is that how the stories go?”

“Yes, of course,” Rufus slumps against the pillar, sliding to the floor. The barrier around them doesn't leave enough space for him to stretch his legs, so he keeps his knees bent. “It would all be very dramatic. Don't tell me you don't read?”

“Of course I read,” Onmund resigns himself to sitting as well. Their shoulders knock against each other in the narrow cage.

“I did not question if you are literate. I asked if you read for pleasure?” Rufus laces his fingers together, depositing his hands in his lap.

“Just because I don't read that garbage--”

“I'm offended you would call it such! Cheap erotica can be very satisfying.”

Onmund rolls his eyes at that. “It doesn't sound as if they are particularly accurate tales.”

“Is this your way of saying you don't have a cock like an ox?” Rufus teases.

Death cannot come soon enough. “Could we literally talk about anything else?”

Smiling, Rufus shrugs his shoulders. He mercifully falls silent.

Tolfdir finally appears, chuckling to himself about the mess his two students have created for themselves. Onmund scrambles to his feet, dusting down his robes. 

“As you can see,” Rufus hops to his feet with ease, “we have managed to get ourselves stuck.”

Tolfdir smiles fondly at Rufus. He isn't one for harsh discipline. “Yes, well, quite a conundrum. I'm afraid there is little I can do from the outside. But perhaps if one of you wears the amulet, and proves yourself worthy of breaking the tablet?”

Onmund feels quite the fool. They have tried nothing to free themselves, just waiting like passive lumps to be rescued.

The amulet is still in Onmund’s hand. He goes to place it about his neck, but Rufus snatches it away.

“I am very good at being worthy of things,” he comments, slipping the amulet over his head.

“Rufus, we’re supposed to--” they're supposed to use magic. And with Tolfdir’s eyes on them, there will be no avoiding that Rufus cannot properly cast. It's been all slight of hand in their lessons, or Rufus conveniently being away during some of the more strenuous spells.

“Fus! Ro!”

Onmund has never seen it before, the voice that Rufus claims to speak, to shout. His gift from the Dovah. The thing that makes him important in this world. Onmund doubted it was real, thinking it was only Rufus’ sense of humor. But no, it's true. It's true and it's more awe inspiring than Onmund even imagined.

It's softer than Onmund expected, for something called a shout. And though Rufus is not terribly loud, Onmund feels the whispers like screams, coursing down the length of his body, over his skin. It could be louder. So much louder. It is by Rufus’ will that it doesn't tear Onmund to pieces. 

The tablet vibrates, then cracks, the barrier falling down once the seal is broken. Onmund feels the last shards of it fall away, dissipate into the air.

Rufus’ smile is smug, self-satisfied. Tolfdir smiles as well, calling Rufus’ display “marvelous!”

Stepping out of the ring, Rufus and Onmund follow Tolfdir to the next room. Before they can clear the threshold, Rufus freezes, his eyes straight ahead. He sways quite suddenly. Onmund reaches out to catch him, but he does not fall, righting himself before he even hits Omnund’s hands.

“Are you alright?”

Rufus looks at him wide eyed, “You did not see it, did you?”

Onmund doesn't know what Rufus is talking about. 

\--

“What image is on your pillar?” Rufus asks.

Onmund stares at the stone slab before him. They have been crawling their way through Saarthal for hours. Draugr haunt them at every turn, rising from their graves with hideous shrieks.

At first, Rufus tried, quite diligently, to slay as many as he could while they still slept. Creeping in on their position, he would quietly slit their throats before they could rise. But this was only possible when they lost sight of Tolfdir. Rufus dare not show his hand in front of the senior mage. And so, sometimes, he was forced to wildly cast his pathetic spells as spectacle, hoping that in the chaos of battle, it wasn't at all apparent that Onmund and Tolfdir were the only two doing any damage.

But when it was just the two of them, he would place his hand against Onmund’s chest, signaling for him to stay back, while he moved silently forward, doling out death in utter stillness.

“It's a whale,” Onmund responds.

Rufus frowns, looking at his pillar, then up at the mosaic on the wall behind, then back at his pillar. He turns the column and the animal in front of Onmund changes too.

“And now?”

“Eagle.”

“Try turning yours.”

It takes surprisingly little effort to make the stone move. Onmund does not wait to see what animal is revealed, because once the pillar clicks in place, the door begins to slide open.

The room ahead of them is larger than any other they have encountered at Saarthal, with a giant, softly glowing sphere hovering in the center. Onmund is awestruck, having never seen anything like it before. The magic fizzles in the air, but he is not skilled enough to say more about its origin, or power.

“Amazing,” Rufus whispers beside him. “So many things I never imagined…”

Behind them is the sound of stone on stone. They both whip around, but it is only Tolfdir, emerging from another pathway through the ruins. This has happened several times in their exploration of Saarthal, Tolfdir being forced along another path while Rufus and Onmund are channeled into another. 

From the look on Tolfdir’s face, he knows little more than his students about the orb. But his astonishment turns quickly to giddy excitement. “What a find, what a find!”

“Do you know anything of it?” Onmund asks, not expecting much.

“It is difficult to say...but we should bring it back to the College for further study.

In a way, it feels even more like a betrayal that Tolfdir wants to disturb this place. These are his ancestors too.

There is another crack, this time up ahead. The three men turn sharply to the noise. This time, it must be a threat. None of the other College members followed them this far and the sound came from in front of them, not behind.

Onmund raises his hands, ready to cast. Beside him, Tolfdir does the same. Rufus hesitates. The sarcophagus cracks open, the Draugr inside, horned and rattling with age, begins to rise.

All around the wretched soul is a sheen of blue, encircling its impossibly tall, narrow frame. Through a whisper in their minds, the Prince tells them his name: Jyrik Gauldurson. He has bested wizards more powerful than these three.

“The orb,” Tolfdir whispers, “Keep his attention!” He shouts, running to get closer to the orb.

Rufus has vanished, seemingly into thin air. Onmund did not hear him run. It is up to Onmund to keep Jyrik from Tolfdir. He doubts himself, immediately. But he must act.

Raising his hand, he cast Sparks. It is still the spell that comes most naturally. The one that feels like the dry, warm barn where he first taught himself to cast. It feels like his home, which he may never see again. It feels like the family he misses so desperately, who he disappointed when he chose this path.

And despite all his sorrow, it's his strength.

Onmund hurls Sparks at Jyrik, who only snickers in return. The spell has done no damage, but Onmund has succeeded in getting the Draugr’s attention. He casts again, hoping to hold it.

From the other end of the room comes the whistling of an arrow through the wind. It pierces Jyrik in the side, embedding itself into desiccated flesh. Another comes, and another, before Jyrik staggers in that direction. 

Onmund is too stunned to move. Who is shooting? He cannot see. It must be Rufus, no one else is here. But he did not have a bow with him, only the daggers concealed under his cloaks.

Though the room is only lit by the orb, Onmund tries to make out the shooter’s position. Tolfdir’s attention is on the orb, casting spells into the light. Whatever he is doing, works, as the arrows take hold, whittling down Jyrik, shot by shot.

Jyrik, apparently unable to see the archer, lashes forward, raising his stave, ice prickling around the edges. He shoots in the direction of the arrows, but still no figure appears. Then the arrows resume, this time from a different, equally shadowed location.

Onmund swallows hard. He is uncertain what he should do. He should fight. But the archer has his own plan, drawing Jyrik closer. This time, the Draugr rushes into the storm of arrows, ready to strike with blunt force instead of magic. 

There are no footsteps, but this time, the archer is not so lucky, Jyrik cuts through his path, snatching him up off the ground and dragging him back into the light.

Onmund does not wait to confirm that it is Rufus. He simply casts, trying to break Jyrik’s concentration. He casts and casts, sending electricity snaking down Jyrik’s flesh until his magicka runs dry. 

Jyrik does not release Rufus, but he turns his head to Onmund. It is enough that Rufus can shove his hand under his robes, grab his blade, and plunge it into Jyrik’s chest.

The howl is deafening. But Rufus does not stop. Stabbing and stabbing wildly, without finesse, until Jyrik releases him. Once Onmund has a sliver of power back, he throws off another spell, every bit helps.

Rufus collapses on the floor, but does not hesitate, launching himself back at the Draugr, this time with both knives drawn, and this time, with training instead of sheer panic. He slides into Jyrik’s chest, dragging the blades from pectoral to hip, twisting in his guts before wrenching the daggers back out.

Jyrik falls to the ground. Then Rufus follows, on hands and knees, he tries to catch his breath.

Onmund runs to him, ready to offer what comfort he can. Healing works a little bit for him, after weeks of practice, so once his reserves are ready, he lets the light fall over Rufus’ body, careful not to touch him. Onmund is not certain his rage has passed.

Looking for Tolfdir, Onmund sees him, still observing the orb. He does not approach, which gives Onmund the space to speak to Rufus.

“Rufus?”

“I’m fine,” Rufus chokes. Onmund cannot see his eyes, but he sounds as if he is holding back sobs. “I’m fine.”

Another moment more and Rufus sits back on his heels, wiping one hand down his face. “Tolfdir will know,” he groans.

“I do not think he saw...his attention was always on the orb. Even so, under such circumstances, he cannot fault you for relying on your strengths, rather than your...developing magic skills.”

Rufus smiles faintly, “I can hope.”

Onmund feels his strange affection for Rufus returning. Not so strange, though it comes and goes. Never constant. Sometimes, he would like very much to be Rufus’ friend. Truly his friend. He suspects Rufus has very few. But, at other times, he is so woefully frustrating.

“We should speak to him.”

“Yes, of course,” Rufus agrees.

Onmund offers Rufus a hand up.

\--

They return to the College on Tolfdir’s request, informing the Arch-Mage of the orb found under Saarthal. Aren looks at them intensely, stating simply that everything will be done to recover the artefact safely. With that, Onmund and Rufus are dismissed.

Onmund wants little more than to sleep for several days straight. But before Rufus will follow him, he has one last question for the Arch-Mage.

“What do you know of the Psijic Order?”

Aren’s eyes do not waver, “I know little, but I have heard of them before, merely ancient histories. Why do you ask?”

Rufus answers, “I think...they may be connected to the orb…”

“And why do you think that, apprentice?”

“I...saw some writing at Saarthal that mentioned them.”

“Speak with Urag, he may have texts that can shed light on what is happening here.”

“Yes, of course, thank you.” With that, Rufus finally turns to follow Onmund out into the courtyard.

Before they can reach the dormitories, Rufus tugs on Onmund’s sleeve, “Let us not go back yet.”

Onmund is in no mood to fight, “I am tired.”

“I am too, only, we can go to the tavern.”

“I have a bed here, Rufus.”

“As do I.”

“So, let us go to sleep.” They have done more than should have been asked of them.

Rufus opens his mouth to say something more. Then closes it without a word. He looks like a particularly infuriating fish. 

“Oh, curses,” Onmund reaches forward, wrapping his hand around the back of Rufus’ neck to hold his head in place. He is quick about it, pressing his lips to Rufus’. They’re warm, yielding, lacking any of the bravado that Rufus sometimes displays, when he’s telling stories or slipping through shadows. Onmund can feel him shiver under his hand. Otherwise, Rufus stays still. When Onmund draws back, he is certain that all of Rufus’ snide, flirtatious comments have not been in jest. “That is what you wanted, was it not?”

Rufus’ dark eyes are wide, his lips still parted when he nods, “Yes.”

“Now, let me sleep,” Onmund turns away before Rufus can bother him any further about this today.

Though, perhaps tomorrow, he will be open to being bothered again.


	2. Chapter 2

Rufus vanishes. Again.

This time, Onmund worries less about his whereabouts, although perhaps a bit more about his own behavior. Surely something called Rufus’ attention away from the College, being that he is the Dragonborn and all...only it would put Onmund’s faint anxiety to rest if he knew for certain Rufus’ departure has nothing at all to do with their kiss.

Hadn't Rufus wanted it as well? Teased Onmund again and again, made suggestions and jokes? Rufus had even said it was what he wanted, at the time.

But that doesn't preclude Rufus from changing his mind.

Onmund goes to lectures, though they are rarely held. Many of the faculty are engaged in the laborious process of transporting the Orb they found under Saarthal back to the College grounds. The apprentices are left largely to their own studies, until it is decided what is to be done.

He goes to the library too, spending most of his time with the tome on Chain Lightning. J’Zargo tells him that they should try casting against one another. ‘The Nord will never learn if he never practices.’ ‘The Nord spends too much time reading.’

And perhaps that is true. But it is the method by which Onmund is most accustomed to learning. Pouring over the text, over and over, visualizing to himself how the magicka is supposed to move, transform as he lets the spell free from the confines of his body. He knows no other way to study. So while J’Zargo and Brelyna send spells skittering across the air of their shared dormitory, Onmund practices how to hold his hands, looking at old diagrams and precise textual instructions.

Onmund finally thinks to ask, “Did Rufus speak to you, before he left?”

“Who?” Urag questions. It has been two weeks since Rufus’ departure.

“Rufus? The Imperial I sometimes study with?” Onmund finally tries, “the Dragonborn?”

Urag smiles, his teeth pulling tight against his upper lip. He knew all along who Onmund meant. “I tried to tell him where to look for the books he needs. The ones about the Psijic Order. However, he ran off before I could finish. Said he had forgotten something. I have not seen him since.”

Onmund sighs. He’s not terribly surprised, given Rufus’ usual pattern of behavior. What more was he to expect?

Settling down at his normal table, Onmund takes out the spellbooks he intends to study for the remainder of the evening. He expects to hear little else about Rufus until he decides to return of his own accord.

He does not let himself consider that one day, Rufus will not come back.

\--

Another two days pass. Rufus returns. The natural darkness under his eyes has deepened, and there is a scab running from the corner of his jaw, down his neck, and terminating somewhere under his robes. The line is thin, a darkened red, perhaps only a few days old, but well on its way to healing. 

The apprentices are in class with Colette, who still cannot rouse interest in Restoration in her students. Brelyna possesses a passing interest in Alteration, but for the most part, they all take most willingly to Destruction. 

Onmund can manage quite a strong Ward, though it takes longer to build than the others, it is no less durable. And his ability with Healing increases every time he practices. Only, he tends to forget about the spell altogether. So, when Colette says they will begin with Fast Healing as soon as possible, Onmund is gripped with panic.

While Rufus arrives to lecture on time, Onmund did not see him before his entrance into the Hall of the Elements. Onmund should be paying attention to Colette, but instead, he traces over Rufus’ scab again and again with his eyes, trying to discern its origin. Too thin for a beast, almost too precise for a blade.

The lecture is short, no more than twenty minutes, before a courier arrives with a letter for Colette. She reads it, then ushers them out and into the courtyard without a word of explanation.

Once outside, Rufus grabs hold of Onmund’s hand, placing it between both of his own, “Did you miss me?”

Brelyna snickers, “He was positively lovesick waiting for you.” As proper as she may be in front of the higher ranking Wizards, she can be quite playfully cruel to Onmund when it is only the apprentices. At least, Onmund hopes it is playful. 

“Why yes,” J’Zargo comes up behind the pair, wrapping his arm around Rufus’ narrow waist. He’s quite a bit shorter than Rufus and Onmund, maybe by half a foot. Quite easily, he nestles himself against Rufus’ side as the group walks back to the Hall of Attainment. “The Nord asked many questions about you in your absence. He would not practice with us. Not one bit. Always waiting for his dear Rufus to return.”

Rufus laughs goodnaturedly. “And now I suppose you’ve made it your objective not to give us a moment of privacy?”

Onmund knows it is no use, his face is red. At least his hood is up. He did not realize the others had noticed his concern over Rufus. 

“Well, perhaps it’s best we let the lovers be,” J’Zargo disentangles himself from Rufus’ side to push open the door to the Hall. He slips inside, letting the door slam in Brelyna’s face. 

“Urg,” she huffs. “He’s always doing that.”

But she does the same. Only opening the door far enough that she can quickly slip inside, leaving Rufus and Onmund in the cold.

“Did you really miss me?” Rufus’ voice has changed, soft and unsure. Onmund realizes they are still holding hands.

“I was worried I upset you,” Onmund knows himself to be a poor liar, so he does not attempt.

Rufus laughs, his confidence coming back, “There is little you could do to upset me. You have not betrayed my trust and...it is unimportant. But that means a great deal to me.”

They should go inside. It is clear enough that Rufus is cold. Inside the dormitories will be warmed by the fire.

“Do you wish to go practice?” Onmund asks.

“Yes,” Rufus runs his thumb over the back of Onmund’s hand, “I would like that very much.”

They head away from the College halls and down to the shoreline. When Onmund feels Rufus’ hand shiver in his, he pulls him closer. He wonders if it would be excessive to give Rufus his overcloak. But then he would be cold as well. Better then, for them to just reach their destination, where the wind is not so fierce.

Rufus knows the way, leading slightly with his silent footsteps. They reach the sheltered overhang. The outcropping of rock overhead means that there is less snow on the ground, though the floor is still cold. As Winter deepens, Onmund should think of someplace else they can go.

Tipping down his hood, Rufus says, quite proudly, “I’ve read Sparks now!”

Onmund reaches forward, pulling Rufus’ hood back up over his head. He’ll be cold in minutes without it. “Good, maybe it will help.” He doesn’t really want to speak about spellcasting. But if Rufus insists.

They run through Sparks a few times. And it is true, Rufus has improved. He’s not entirely a lost cause after all. Better still is he can cast more frequently, which means his Magicka reserves are increasing. 

Rufus is quite pleased with himself, telling Onmund that he has been practicing on his own as well, while he’s been traveling. 

“What have you been doing?” Onmund asks, “While you’ve been away?”

Rufus frowns, drawing his knees back to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. He rests his chin on his knees. “Just...things.”

“Right,” Onmund shouldn’t have asked. He may not have liked the answer, if Rufus provided one.

“Were you a happy child?” Rufus asks without context.

Well, it’s not as if Onmund has shared much about himself either. So, perhaps he should not resent the question. “Yes, I suppose so. My parents...did not want me to come here. They wanted something different for me. But before that, they were not unkind.”

Rufus nods, “I have heard this, about Nords. That they do not like magic. They think it weakness in battle. But they still use it.”

“Yes, they do. When it benefits them.”

“You cannot tell anyone,” Rufus blurts out quite sharply. “What I’m going to tell you, you cannot share with anyone. Ever.” His eyes are wide.

Onmund nods, “I will not.” Truthfully, he has no one to tell. Though he cannot imagine what would cause Rufus such distress. Seeing as has already shared at least part of his plotting against the Thalmor with Onmund.

“I did not lie, when I said my parents were diplomats. And I was supposed to...I was trained initially as such.” Rufus ducks his head in between his knees before looking back up. He struggles to keep his voice even. “They were killed when I was sixteen. Assassinated. They took me and my brother...he was only four. I’ve worked for them ever since…”

“You work willingly for those who murdered your parents?” Onmund’s mouth goes dry. He is not entirely shocked at Rufus’ admission to being involved with a league of assassins. There are still rumors about the Dark Brotherhood, though with each passing year, reports of their activity wane. But he had not expected Rufus to be so...callous regarding his own family.

“Yes, I do. What else was there for me? My brother? They took my parents lives as part of a contract...and sheltered us because it was the right thing to do. I was angry, at the time, but I understand now. Killing my parents was a business transaction. Raising my brother and I? An act of kindness.”

“You said, before, that you wanted to keep your brother safe?”

Rufus nods, “Yes, he is ten now, still too young to train. But...I...this mission that I am on, it is not a contract. I truly do wish to make the Empire a safer place, a more stable one. I fully intend to support him, after I have finished my task here. I do not resent my...caretakers, for the skills they have taught me. But I would rather he not experience the same.”

“And they will just let you leave?” Onmund is skeptical that any band of assassins would let an agent walk away so easily. 

Shrugging his shoulders, Rufus continues, “They are a business, like any other.” He snickers, “It’s not like those stories of the Dark Brotherhood. They’re not a cult. There are no rituals. Such superstitions are why the Brotherhood failed, and why operations like ours surfaced to fill the void. So, yes, they will let me leave.”

Though Onmund is skeptical, he does not wish to disrupt Rufus’ obvious optimism. “It’s good, that you wish to help your brother.”

Rufus smiles, tapping his long, well-manicured fingers against his knee. “I hope so.”

In return, Onmund wants to share something of himself. So Rufus knows reciprocation. “When I left my parents’ home. I was told not to return.” He furrows his brow, “They did not scream or shout, or curse, but I am no longer welcome there.”

“Because you chose to be a Mage?”

To this day, Onmund is not certain, “Because I was not the son they wanted. If not because I wished to study magic, they would have found another reason, I think.”

Rufus frowns, “But you’re lovely.” His admission is so effortlessly easy. It’s the simplicity of his words that strikes Onmund the hardest. 

“If they had another child, perhaps it would be easier,” Onmund deflects. He has no intention of lining up his faults. Rufus, with his unassuming kindness, would simply shoot each one down, even though he has only known Onmund a short time. “We should eat, it is getting late.”

Rufus hops to his feet, offering his hand for Onmund to take.

It has gotten colder while they practiced. Facing the full force of the wind off the sea makes the temperature drop bitter. Rufus sticks close to Onmund’s side, no doubt trying to feed off his body heat. The sun is too low now to offer them any respite, any sliver of extra warmth.

When they meet the edge of the coastline, Onmund walks them towards the tavern, rather than the College. He’d like a bit more privacy yet, even if it is technically in the presence of other people. At least those in the tavern are less likely to hover around them. Rufus does not question their direction, simply keeping in step with Onmund.

As soon as they’re through the tavern doors, Rufus hurries to the hearth, flexing his fingers in front of the fire. Onmund has to stifle his laugh. When he hears it, Rufus turns his head sharply and glares, “This is the coldest place on the continent, have a little sympathy.”

“Not quite,” Onmund counters, taking down his hood. He grabs the back of Rufus’ hood, pulling it down as well. It’s impolite to keep it up inside the tavern. “I will see about dinner.”

Rufus nods, his nose is quite brightly pink. There is water on his eyelashes from where the snowflakes have quickly melted.

Over dinner of rabbit stew, with potatoes and pickled cabbage, Rufus finally shares more of his plan with Onmund. He speaks with confidence, though he keeps his volume reasonable. “I do not think finding the Orb was coincidence.”

“You mentioned an inscription?” Onmund remembers, “the Psijic Order?”

Rufus shakes his head, “Not an inscription. I had a….vision. Inside Saarthal. That is where I heard the name.”

“A vision?”

“Yes, quite suddenly, then it was gone. I have not yet put together how they are connected.”

“But you think it connected to your...mission here?”

Rufus laughs around his spoon, swallowing thickly. “I am starting to believe the Divines have it out for me. My punishment for doubting them for so long. Now, everywhere I turn? Prophecy this, vision that, there is barely enough space in my brain for my own thoughts.” Perhaps that is why Rufus looks so tired. 

“I can help you,” Onmund offers, though he’s not certain what that would entail. “At least with finding out more about the Psijic Order? Urag said there were books.”

Rufus lights up again, “Yes! I had wanted to ask him more about them. Read them, if I can. But I was...recalled again.”

“To Whiterun?”

“No,” Rufus replies, “to High Hrothgar. The Graybeards, like everyone else, are perpetually dissatisfied with my performance,” he snickers. 

“Perhaps too much is asked of you,” Onmund comments, “why continue to bother with your mission here? Certainly, you may be influential in the politics of Skyrim, given who you are?”

Rufus laughs, “Do not make me give up the one idea I had for myself. The one I know I can accomplish.”

“Rufus, you came to me in the first week because you joined a Mage’s College without knowing any magic.”

“But look how well it has gone! I made the right choice, confiding in you, didn’t I?” That sweet earnestness returns to his voice.

Onmund smiles, “I supposed you have.”

\--

The sun is gone and it is late. They should slip inside the Hall of Attainment; they should go to bed. 

But Onmund finds himself wanting one last moment. Because today Rufus was charming and sweet, and not at all frustrating. Today his cheeks flushed as the chill melted from their bones in front of the tavern fireplace. Today he called Onmund lovely. Today he told Onmund how much he loves his brother and his Empire. 

So as they reach the College grounds, Onmund pulls Rufus into a shaded alcove, where at least the snow won’t catch on their skin, though the cold still will. He puts Rufus’ back to the wall, so he can press the heat of his own body over top of Rufus’, a pathetic attempt to shield him from the elements. 

Rufus is all giddy smiles and nervous laughter, curling his hands in the front of Onmund’s robes to hold him close. He offers up his parted lips, waiting for Onmund to close onto him, keeping his mouth open when they meet. Rufus pushes his tongue past Onmund’s lips, it’s too much and too messy, but there’s something about the simple enthusiasm that makes Onmund feel very greatly desired. 

Onmund hitches his leg between both of Rufus’. His intention is not to be improper, but, Divines, he wants to be close. In that moment, he wants to keep Rufus warm and happy. He wants very many things that go further, to pull Rufus to bed, see if his ribs show through his skin, the pattern of undoubtably dark hair dusting across his abdomen, the curve of his cock, and the depth of his breath. But Onmund knows that his desires have less to do with Rufus in particular and more with his loneliness in general. It is too soon for anything else.

Like all children of Skyrim, Onmund has been taught that life is short, harsh. He should grab at happiness, fledgling affections, as fiercely as possible, claw for it with talons sharpened by loss. Courtship is meant to be a short process. A good Nord would find Mara’s amulet tonight, be married in two days time. It would be expected.

But Rufus is unexpected, sometimes nothing but a skeleton animated by expectations. He is more than kisses in this courtyard, he is more than a body or a bed or comfort. How could Onmund ask anything more, when the entire province tugs at Rufus’ robes?

Besides, Onmund has thus far proven to be rubbish at being a good Nord. What is one more infraction?

“You're cold,” Onmund cradles Rufus’ face between his hands, trying to warm his cheeks. At least now, his lips are redder.

“I don't care,” Rufus whines, tipping his head back until it knocks against the stone behind him, exposing his neck. For a supposed assassin, his body is often incredibly open, vulnerable.

Onmund kisses him again, trying to pour his concerns past his lips without speaking. His tongue is not very clever. His lips and teeth even less so. The longer they embrace, the more Rufus yields, melting into the wall behind him, allowing Onmund to press against him, mould him to the stone. He is undoubtedly tired. They should stop.

“We should go inside,” Onmund whispers, he's not certain his voice carries.

Rufus looks away, biting his tongue. “If you think it best.”

\--

In the morning, there are absolutely no instructors present at the College. Yes, there are ranking wizards, researchers, and the like, but no instructors, no lessons. Rufus resolves on finally asking Urag about the Order. And, this time, waiting for an answer.

Onmund decides to go with him, at least to hear more about the Psijic Order, even if Rufus will share nothing else about his vision.

“So, as I was trying to say, before you ran out last time,” Urag starts, “I had the books you are searching for. Had. Past tense.”

“What happened to them?” Rufus asks.

“An apprentice by the name of Orthorn ran off with them. There was a bit of a disagreement, awhile back now, about how the College should be run’” Urag huffs, “suppose that Orthorn decided to join them. Took the books as a bargaining chip, maybe. How would I know? I don't exactly have the resources to go after petty thieves.”

“But you know where he went?” Onmund asks. While Urag could not try to recover the books himself, there's no reason he and Rufus could not. If they contain the information Rufus needs.

Urag nods, “Fallows Keep. It's the base of operations for the mages who defected. Couldn't tell you if Orthorn made it there in one piece. But I'm certain that is where he was headed.”

Rufus thanks Urag for the information. If there is nothing else, he will take his leave, depart for Fallows Keep as soon as possible.

Onmund follows Rufus to the stairs, keeping silent as he makes his decision. Even if Rufus does not ask, he will insist on following. He should not have to bear this burden alone.

They stop in the stairwell. Their voices will carry, but at least they are alone for the moment. Rufus is one step lower, making their heights artificially uneven. “You don't have to do this,” Rufus says.

Onmund knows he does not. But he wants to. “It is better that you do not go alone. What if something were to happen?”

“You're not very...stealthy.”

Onmund stutters. He had not thought of that. Rufus’ talents in combat rely on subtlety and silence. Onmund’s tactics are deafeningly loud in comparison. “Is it too forward to say I will worry about you, if you go alone?”

Rufus smiles, shadows casting over his face. “I would worry about leaving you here. I know the Thalmor command has been notified of my presence here. And it appears our classmates know of my fondness for you…”

“We did not do a good job of hiding it.”

“I didn't want to hide,” Rufus quickly counters. “I am only sorry I have put you at risk.”

Perhaps Onmund should be more upset that Rufus has interrupted his studies, quite profoundly. But in his gut, Onmund feels a giddy excitement at it all. “I will leave the decision to you. But my wish is to accompany you.”

“We’ll need to get you better boots.”

\--

The boots help, a little. Onmund can certainly hear the difference. Given Rufus’ lack of skill with magic, he turns out to be a competent enchanter. While Onmund’s steps are not quite silent, they are certainly muffled. He questions whether Rufus needs the enchantment at all, or if he simply always walks as if on air.

They stop perhaps a tenth of a mile outside Fallows Keep, keeping hidden in the hardy, winter grasses and a cracked boulder, just high enough to obscure them when crouched. Under his overcloak, Rufus wears black from head to toe, including a mask that covers all but his eyes and forehead. Once the sun finishes setting, he’ll be nearly invisible.

“So, here is the plan,” Rufus pulls his mask away from his face to speak. “Once it is dark, we will wait for a shift change. Then I will secure the outside perimeter. If I am quick enough, we will not be detected.”

“And if we are detected?”

“Feel free to electrocute as many mages as you please. Though I suspect, we will actually be fucked.”

For the first time Onmund considers the real danger of what they are doing. Talos, he has made a mistake. These aren't petty bandits or half-decayed Draugr. They are skilled mages. Ones who defected from the College, yes, but with years more training than Onmund has.

Why did he feel so assured before? Because of Rufus? This vague idea that the Dragonborn is somehow invincible? But Rufus is bone and sinew and soft lips and messy hair. He's just a man. And men can die.

“Let's not be detected then, yes?” Rufus tries to lighten the mood. “Once the guards are down, hopefully everyone else goes to bed at a reasonable hour. I don't actually want to kill everyone if it can be avoided. I just want these forsaken books.”

Onmund nods.

“Right then,” Rufus continues, “otherwise, once we are inside, just stick close to me, stay quiet. And this will be a cakewalk.”

Once the sun vanishes, Rufus keeps his eyes on the torches, waiting for movement in the lights that suggests one shift exchanging for another. The mages inside aren't soldiers, so they cannot expect military precision, but they are keen enough not to leave themselves defenseless.

Rufus shucks his cloak. Too much exposed white fur and brown cloth might give him away. His leathers are pitch black, allowing him to recede into the darkness. Onmund watches as Rufus pulls his mask back over his mouth and nose.

Without another word, Rufus slips away. Onmund loses track of him almost immediately. Impossible to follow his movements through the dark, without sound, without light.

Onmund knows Rufus is using his bow to pick off the guards, but there is little indication of when one falls. There are no screams. Perhaps Onmund hears a dull thud when a body hits the ramparts. But it could just as well be his imagination. He has no choice but to wait for Rufus to return. 

What if Rufus does not come back?

He tries to listen, for a crackling of embers, for the hiss hiss of magic, an arrow cutting through the air. There's nothing but stillness. The long wait. Minutes tick by.

The brush of fingers along his back startles him. Jumping to his feet, he nearly screams, but bites his tongue just in time. He can see the glint of Rufus’ smile, his mask pulled down around his neck. “I found the way inside.”

Onmund tries to calm his staggered breathing. He was wound so tightly while waiting that coming undone has left him dizzy. Rufus doesn't tease him for it, waiting until Onmund nods that he is ready.

They don't bother sneaking back towards the Keep. They have nothing to fear until they are inside. From there, neither of them have a very good idea where they are going. As much as Rufus says he wants to minimize how many of the mages will die, Onmund is skeptical about how much choice they will have.

“Stay close to me, we’ll do fine,” Rufus assures.

“And if things are not fine?”

“We’ve been through this,” Rufus chirps, “might as well throw as many spells as you can manage? And I'll take care of the rest.”

Rufus prys open the door to the dungeons. The way down is dark. Summoning Magelight, Rufus smirks at Onmund before descending the stairs.

The ground is wet, water creeping up past their ankles, soaking their boots. The muffle enchantment does nothing to cease the sounds of moving water when Onmund walks. 

Whether it is Onmund or the door or something else that rouses suspicions, they both hear the Mage coming down the dungeon stairs from the Keep up above. Rufus grabs Onmund by the front of his robes, dragging him out of the center of the room. He snuffs out the light, pressing them both against the damp stone.

Rufus lays his hand flat against Onmund’s chest, mouthing, “Stay,” before sliding closer to the stairwell. There is enough light left from the sconces that Rufus doesn't completely disappear. 

From his belt, Rufus draws one of his daggers, keeping it firmly in his grip. The footsteps draw closer. Onmund holds his breath. He realizes this is the first time he will watch Rufus kill a man. Not an undead, or beast, or demon. But a flesh and blood man.

This is what Rufus does. This is what he has trained for since the age of sixteen. 

Onmund has not thought very deeply on the implications before.

From his place along the wall, Onmund can only partially see the Mage, who carries a torch in one hand. He is a Dunmer, small and lithe. In the shadows, Rufus looms over him.

The Dunmer does not even have a chance to scream.

Rufus smashes the blunt end of his knife into the back of the Dunmer’s skull. He splashes, face first, into the shallow pool, the torch smothering out. Rufus grabs him by the back of his robes, hoisting him back out of the water. The Mage remains motionless as Rufus carries him over to an empty table, tossing him on top. 

Onmund doesn't move. Rufus hasn't told him to. 

“Okay,” Rufus sheathes his knife. “Let's head upstairs.”

“Is he dead?” Onmund asks. Only now does he realize he is shaking.

Rufus shrugs, taking off one of his gloves. He holds his hand over the Mer’s mouth and waits several seconds. “No, he's alive. It wasn't my intention to kill him. If it were, he'd be dead. It's hard to tell though, sometimes. Particularly when they're so small, what a blow like that will actually do.”

Onmund nods. He has no fucking idea.

Rufus frowns, “Now that you know, who I am, you think I'm a monster?”

Onmund doesn't have a second to get a word in. 

“I don't think I killed the guards either? I shot them, with arrows that have a particular sedative. But it depends on their weight. In any case, they will be injured from the arrow tip. But if they are not heavy enough...or if they are prone to bleeding….I did not check on them.”

“We should get those books.” Onmund wants desperately to change the subject.

Rufus looks away, “Yes, of course.”

\--

The Keep is full of wicked things. The Mages have been keeping vampires hostage. Rufus stands at the door of one of the cages, listening to one of the vampires whisper sweet promises to him. What a dear boy, still so young, so pure. If only he could find the key?

“It would be very easy for me to pick the lock.”

“So it is true,” she is a Nord woman, and was probably quite beautiful, before all color left her face, her hands, her blonde hair turned to anemic wheat, and her blue eyes rotted red. “You have come to free me?”

“I've come looking for stolen books,” Rufus explains, “from the College of Winterhold.”

In another cage, an Altmer scrambles from the floor to his feet, grabbing hold of the bars of his cage. “I know where they are!” he exclaims. “Free me, and I can take you to the books.”

Rufus turns his attention, stepping away from the vampire, who hisses in disgust, and towards the Altmer. 

The Altmer presses his face between the iron bars of his cage.He shows none of the tell-tale signs of vampirism, though he may simply not be far along in the process of turning. “My name is Orthorn, and I can help you.”

Breaking into a grin at the name, Rufus replies, “Can you? We really need those books, where are they?”

“The Caller!” Orthorn starts, “she has them in her chambers. Up in the tower. I can show you the way.”

“And how do you know the books are there?” Nothing about Rufus’ face shows recognition of who Orthorn is. He strings Orthorn along, extracting information. 

“I...I have been in her chambers.”

“You're that disappointing, hm?” Rufus markedly looks from Orthorn’s face to his groin, though the Altmer is dressed in a thin, coarse robe that obscures his figure completely.

“Something like that,” Orthorn stutters. “But I promise, I can show you.”

Rufus reaches for his waistband, pulling out a steel lockpick. Crouching down, he works quickly to pop open the lock. “You'd better start running.”

“Yes, I will take you there as quickly as possible,” Orthorn promises.

Rufus shakes his head, “Get out of here. If I see your face again, I won't be so kind. I know you're the one who stole the books.”

Orthorn’s eyes widen. Nodding furiously, he bolts into the hallway, tripping over his own feet as he makes his escape.

“All he did was steal some books,” Onmund says. He's not so much arguing on Orthorn’s behalf, as trying to understand Rufus’ decisions. He finds them somewhat capricious, mildly disturbing.

Rufus presses his lips into a thin line, “Had he not stolen the books, we would not have had to come here. Because he is careless, wanting to appease everyone, I had to come here. I may have killed people over this. I may have to kill this ‘Caller’ still. I consider him as responsible for their downfall as myself.”

Onmund does not dare point out that no one is forcing them to recover these books.

\--

The Caller finds them intolerable from the start. Rufus says he has only come for the books Orthorn stole from the College. She barks back that the tomes are of little value, but they have nothing to offer her in return.

Onmund can smell magicka in the air. He can see the traces of Necromancy in her bedchamber. He wants to fight her. He finds her repulsive.

She dismisses Rufus with a wave of the hand, calling him a silly child. She'd rather keep the books. Her denial is a show of power, that she finds these apprentices beneath her.

Rufus asks one more time for the books. She laughs in their faces. “I did not expect you to be so stubborn. Perhaps you will prove entertaining yet.”

Before she can finish summoning her Atronachs, Rufus reaches for his belt. His wrist snaps with deadly precision.

The knife, no longer than a man’s palm, catches in the center of her throat, blood seeping around the edges of the wound as she struggles to breathe. She is not yet dead, spells still simmering in her curled fists. 

Rufus steps towards her, his larger dagger in one hand. He plunges the blade into her chest, ending her slow, suffering death. Her body collapses to the floor.

“We should burn her,” Rufus’ hands shake as he pulls his smaller knife from her throat. “I don't trust Necromancy.”

“No one does,” Onmund croaks. 

“We should free the vampire too. They will kill her in the morning, when they find their leader dead.” That will mean retracing their steps, making sure not to wake the Mages who have slept through it all. “You have the list Urag gave us yes?” Rufus asks.

Onmund nods.

“Good. Find those books. Take whatever else you like...nothing, you know, blatantly evil...um,” his confidence rapidly deteriorates. “Once you have everything, burn her body, please. I'm going to go free the vampire. I'll be back. We’ll leave from the balcony.”

He doesn't wait for Onmund to respond, disappearing down the stairwell.

\--

Neither of them have the energy to return to the College directly. 

Around noon, they stop, resigned to the fact they will have to sleep their way through part of the day. Otherwise, one of them is sure to collapse, and the other won't be alert enough to keep them from crashing into the road face first.

Onmund asks the innkeeper for a room with two beds, if she has one. And yes, they’ll be having dinner this evening. It's not particularly safe to travel at night, but between the two of them, and after what they have already faced, it should not be too much of a bother to continue on once they have rested.

When he turns away with the key, he finds Rufus dead on his feet. His eyelids are heavy and he sways slightly before righting himself. Onmund does not even bother to tease. He feels much the same.

The room is tidy and free of drafts, which is all one can really hope for along the roads of Skyrim. 

“Pity,” Rufus yawns, stretching his arms above his head, “I was hoping that there would only be one bed, and we’d be forced to share.”

Onmund smiles, “Another one of your books?”

Rufus nods, “You would do the chivalrous thing, offer me the bed, while you took the chair, or just bundled blankets on the floor. And I would respond,” Rufus changes the pitch of his voice, “Oh no! That’s quite silly, we’re both adults here, we’ll just share.” He goes back to his normal voice, “And it would start very innocently, with us curled up on our respective sides. But the bed would not be very large. And I would be able to feel the heat of your body, and you, mine. In the night we would drift together, until we are in each other's arms.”

Onmund shucks his overcloak, hanging it over the back of the only chair in the room. “Rufus, we could just sleep together, if you'd like.” He doesn't mean specifically to be intimate, but they could do that as well. He's tired, but not opposed. Tugging his robes off, Onmund waits in just his breeches and tunic for Rufus to make a decision.

When Rufus swallows, the apple of his throat bobs. “Yeah, we should, um, do that.” His normally deft fingers are unusually clumsy with the buckles of his armor.

For a moment Onmund considers the fact that it is the middle of the day, and the tavern is quite full, just on the other side of the wall. But he is capable of being quiet. He's all but certain Rufus is as well.

But now Rufus won't even look at him, fussing with his armor until he's just down to his smalls. He's more muscular than Onmund assumed, though perhaps he should have known better, that while Rufus is lean, he is not weak. His ribs do show through his skin, but only when he breathes in, and only because he carries little in the way of extra padding. Probably why he is always so cold. But his arms are well defined, his stomach flat, and his hips narrow. Still, he looks away, even as his mouth starts moving.

“So, yeah, okay let's start.” He steps towards Onmund, looking into his eyes and then back again. “You're overdressed.” Indeed, Onmund is still mostly clothed.

“You don't want to do this?” Onmund asks.

Rufus grabs at the front of Onmund’s tunic. He's able to look down, watch as Onmund’s stomach is revealed when he lifts up the tunic. Onmund doesn't stop him, raising his arms so Rufus can undress him. “I do.”

Onmund smiles, “I didn't know you thought I was ugly.”

“I don't!” Rufus protests. And this time he does look at Onmund. If anything, he holds his gaze for too long, until it becomes unnerving. He puts his hands on Onmund’s shoulders, curling his fingers around and holding. Onmund lets one of his own hands fall to Rufus’ hip. “I just thought you'd help more,” Rufus whispers, not averting his eyes.

“Help?”

Rufus shoves him in the center of the chest, backing him towards the bed. Onmund can't help but smile, this is more like what he expected. He falls back onto the bed, pulling Rufus on top of him. Craning his neck, he kisses Rufus thoroughly, running his hands down Rufus’ chest, enjoying the subtle textures of his skin and hair, trailing down under his smallclothes.

Spreading his legs over Onmund’s hips, Rufus grinds down, gasping into Onmund’s open mouth. His eyes are screwed shut, his hands unmoving just over Onmund’s chest.

Onmund pulls back, letting his head fall back against the pillow. Rufus’ eyes flutter open. But when his mouth closes, he doesn't smile.

He tugs at Onmund’s breeches with a silent determination. Onmund doesn't object, kicking away the last remnants of his clothes once Rufus gets them down around his ankles.

There's a short flash of embarrassment, there always is, the first time. Onmund can't know for certain that Rufus will like what he sees. And there's a twinge of modesty that is hard to shake, especially with the torches lit. But Onmund stops himself from covering his body with his hands. There's no need.

Rufus stares at him a moment, wide eyed and mouth open. He skims his hand down the center of Onmund’s chest, down to his waist, stopping short of his cock. Onmund moves his hands again, trying not to obstruct Rufus from touching him. 

“You're very handsome,” Rufus comments. 

Onmund admits to himself it's nice to hear, even if he does not entirely agree. He's not grotesque, but he considers himself to be quite average. 

“You're a flatterer.”

“Yeah,” Rufus’ cheeks are pink. “Alright.” Rufus kneels at the edge of the mattress, seems to think about what he's doing and then asks, “Could you, sit up? On the edge of the bed? I want to suck your cock.”

“Are you sure?” Onmund asks, “the floor is probably cold. I can sit against the headboard, if it will make it easier.”

Rufus nods slowly, “Okay.”

Onmund arranges himself, waiting for Rufus to get in position. When he doesn't move, Onmund is uncertain what to do. Rufus just continues to stare at Onmund’s erection.

“Rufus?”

Rufus doesn't respond, tipping his head forward and taking the tip of Onmund’s cock into his mouth. 

At first, it's lovely. Warm and wet with a bit of suction, a tease, really, with a promise of more to come. Onmund reaches out, runs his fingers through Rufus’ hair. It's beautifully soft against his fingers.

Rufus sinks deeper and Onmund sighs.

Then almost shrieks as Rufus scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin of his cock. Instinctively, Onmund pulls away, softening partially in response. “Fuck!”

Rufus pulls back, embarrassment clear on his face, “Sorry! Ah, I…”

“Divines…” Onmund realizes, putting the pieces together, “You've never had sex with a man before.”

Just as suddenly, Rufus blurts, “I've never had sex with anyone before!”

They stare at each other a long moment. Rufus’ chest rises and falls like a fluttering of wings. Onmund could swear he can hear Rufus’ blood in his veins. 

He should have asked. He shouldn't have assumed. But now he can't think of anything comforting or soothing to say. And some part of him feels like this is all wrong at the moment. Onmund looks for an out.

“We should sleep.” It is not that he no longer wishes to sleep with Rufus. Only, he would like the circumstances to be better. When he is not exhausted and Rufus is not on the verge of collapse. 

“Oh...okay...I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

“No, I mean, I am sorry too.” He should say more.

Rufus swings his feet onto the floor, ready to head to the other bed.

“You can stay,” Onmund says, “I don't...if you still want. I still want you. Just maybe another time? When we’ve had time to talk. And we don't have to worry so much about patrons in the other room,” Onmund laughs nervously. “But we can still share the bed, if it's something you would like?”

“Okay,” Rufus draws his legs back into the bed. It's a tight fit, pressing their bodies against each other. Onmund can feel Rufus’ erection, still hard against his thigh as they settle down to sleep. He thinks about taking it into his hand, stroking Rufus to completion while they mumble affections to one another. But he wants to do this with a clear head. When he's not so bone-achingly tired. 

Onmund worries he won't be able to fall asleep, pressed against Rufus’ chest, heat building between them. It's a testament to his tiredness that he is out before anxious worry can overcome him.


	3. Chapter 3

“I want to try something,” Rufus says.

They've nearly finished with dinner. Once they've eaten, they'll continue on to the College, see if these books really can help them learn more about the Psijic Order.

Onmund was worried that when they woke, Rufus would behave differently. Or he would behave differently, without intending. But dinner has been pleasant. Rufus is as chatty as ever, smiling at Onmund through the meal. So perhaps he understands that his admission of inexperience has only slowed them down temporarily. Onmund still wants him.

“Try what?”

Rufus reaches into his bag, tucked in by his feet, and pulls out an amulet. Onmund recognizes it immediately as the artefact from Saarthal. “Put it on,” he passes the chain to Onmund. “I just want to know if you...see anything. Or feel any different.”

Onmund turns over the amulet, inspecting it, though he remembers its contours well. “Are you sure inside a crowded tavern is the place?”

Rufus shrugs, “Wait until we’re outside, then.”

Placing the amulet into the pocket of his robes, Onmund goes back to his bit of chewy beef. Rufus eats only bread and a helping of pickled cabbage, keeping away from the meat.

Once outside in the open air, Rufus shoves at Onmund's shoulder, “Try it now. I want to see.”

Knowing well enough that Rufus will not be satisfied until he wears the amulet, Onmund takes the chain from his pocket. He pulls the amulet on, letting it fall heavy against his chest. He feels no different, sees no visions.

“Nothing?” Rufus questions.

“Nothing,” Onmund confirms. He goes to remove the artefact, but Rufus presses his palm over the amulet. “Keep it, it suits you.”

It feels rather silly, like Rufus has given him jewelry as a gift. Well, Onmund realizes, that is what has happened. Onmund takes the amulet and tucks it under his robes, where it cannot be seen.

\--

By the time they return to the College, the orb has been installed in the Hall of Elements. Tolfdir tells them that some of the professors have started to refer to the orb as the Eye of Magnus. It is so large, it dominates the center of the Hall, forcing Tolfdir, Rufus, and Onmund to the edges of the room. 

The stench of the Eye is nearly unbearable, assaulting Onmund’s nostrils, making his head cloudy. How can the others bear it? Unless he is the only one affected? That seems unlikely.

The watery blue light casts shadows across their faces. Onmund cannot read the inscriptions, etched across the orb, but he finds the fine typography beautiful, in a primal way. Rufus stands, transfixed, staring into the center of the Eye. Onmund worries that he is having another vision, but he dare not mention it in front of Tolfdir. Just as he refuses to mention the smell of magicka.

All three men turn when the door to the Hall opens. Precise, heavy footsteps thud over the constant buzz of the Eye. Taller than both Onmund and Rufus by nearly three inches, Ancano demands attention by his mere presence. He stands unreasonably close to Rufus when he finally halts.

“I have come for the Dragonborn,” he announces.

Rufus winces. Though everyone at the College presumably knows, no one treats him any different than the other apprentices. Well, Tolfdir is perhaps a touch indulgent, but Onmund suspects that has little to do with the fact Rufus is the Dragonborn. And no one at the school calls him ‘Dragonborn’ to his face.

“For what reason?” Rufus questions.

“Your presence has been requested, by a man claiming to be of the Psijic Order. He refuses to state anything more until you are present,” Ancano says with obvious distaste.

Rufus stares blankly ahead, “I suppose I have little choice.”

“He is with the Arch-Mage presently,” Ancano finishes, nodding to Rufus in a way that indicates he is dismissed. Turning his attention to Tolfdir, he continues, “He requested another student as well, ‘Onmund.’”

“I'm Onmund,” he speaks up. Since entering the room, Ancano has not so much as glanced in his direction.

“Go, then.”

Rufus waits by the door for Onmund to catch up and they exit together, Ancano on their heels. The Thalmor agent is clearly perturbed by Onmund’s presence. Perhaps he was hoping to corner Rufus alone.

With long strides, Ancano overtakes them, leading the way to the Arch-Mage’s quarters.

Onmund has little idea how the Psijic Order would even know his name. Though his association with Rufus may be enough. He has had no visions, and knows even less of their purpose than Rufus.

As they ascend the stairs to meet with the guest and Arch-Mage, Ancano speaks to them, or, more specifically, to Rufus, only once. “Do not think me a fool, Dragonborn.”

“I would never,” Rufus can't help but reply.

In the center of the Arch-Mage’s quarters stands a great garden, filled with plants and herbs for every possible potion, nestled against one another, maximizing the sheer number of reagents that fit in the circular plot.

The ceiling is high and the room arranged into a number of slices. Onmund cannot see everything tucked in behind the stone archways, though he can make out the enchanting table, as well as a number of stacked crates.

The Arch-Mage himself stands with their guest, an Altmer sorcerer in brightly colored robes, unlike any dye Onmund has seen. His pale, yellowed hands are long fingered, and his eyes an odd, milky-blue. He is at once too colorful and somewhat dim. Onmund can think of no better way to describe his unusual appearance.

The guest smiles at them, though it is all politeness, no warmth. Out of habit, Onmund holds his ground, feeling a mounting threat.

Quite suddenly, the edges of his vision blurs, the enchantment table, the garden, the archways, falling out of focus. For a moment, Onmund feels as if he is falling. He reaches towards Rufus, grabbing at his hand. Rufus has already turned his head to confirm that they see the same vision.

Is that what this is, a vision?

Ancano and Savos Aren fade away as well, receding into the bubbling haze.

“Ah, yes, a bit of privacy for us,” the sorcerer starts. “Proper introductions, though quickly. I am Quaranir, of the Psijic Order.”

“I saw you,” Rufus interrupts, “in Saarthal.”

Quaranir nods, “And we have been trying to contact you again, but have had little luck. We suspect the Eye of Magnus has been interfering with our communications. That and,” he cocks his head towards Onmund, “you decided to share the amulet.”

Onmund puts his hand over his chest, where the amulet rests underneath his robes.

“Not the first time a pretty bauble has interrupted important matters. Though, this may indeed be useful to us. Which is why I have come to see you both. Time is of the essence.”

Rufus nods, “About the Eye?”

“It is undoubtedly a danger. And the longer it remains at the College, the greater the anticipated damage.”

“Anticipated? What kind of damage?” Rufus questions.

Quaranir shakes his head, “We do not know. There is much we do not know.”

“Then why are you here?” Rufus sneers, “why invade my thoughts if you can offer no help?”

“I am not in your thoughts, Dragonborn. I am here, as close to the flesh as feasible. Which is how I may appear to you and your friend both at once. And I did not say had nothing to offer. Only, we do not know the full extent of the Eye’s power. But we know the name of the one who may. The Augur of Dunlain. Seek them out. They should know more.”

“And where will I find ‘the Augur of Dunlain?’” Rufus’ tone is almost mocking, his patience wearing thin.

“Here at the College. Their precise location remains obscure to me.”

“Well, fuck,” Rufus huffs in defeat.

Quaranir forces another smile, “We know you are tired, Dragonborn, but this is not a matter that can wait. I will assist you best I can. But my powers are limited by the presence of the Eye.”

“No! I don't need you helping. Don't try to visit me in my head again. We can talk like this, but not in my head.”

Quaranir’s attention returns to Onmund, “It is good then, that you are here to help him.”

Onmund realizes that Quaranir means to assault his mind instead of Rufus’, if Rufus is so intent on keeping visitors out.

“There are great trials ahead for you both, you must meet them.”

“Fuck,” Rufus mumbles.

All at once, the sharpness returns to the world, time speeding up to its regular passage. Ancano barks at Quaranir, demanding to know what he could possibly want with two of the College’s students? Mediocre ones, at that? It is all quite questionable.

“I must have made a mistake,” Quaranir deflects, “I should be leaving now.”

Ancano means to retain the other Mer, but Quaranir provides assurance upon assurance that this has all been a misunderstanding, and he is sorry for having wasted their time with such a trifle.

As Quaranir makes his way to the stairwell, Onmund feels a tingling at the base of his skull. Whether is is Quaranir trying to reach him, or an affectation of the Eye, or something else entirely, Onmund is unsure. Whatever the source may be, Onmund’s sympathy for Rufus grows.

Aren shakes his head, “How unusual.”

Ancano scoffs, “He should be tossed from the College grounds, if he is so eager to leave. Or detained, until he is forthright with us.”

“We have no grounds, or authority to hold him,” Aren comments, turning back to his garden, hands clasped behind his back.

“I have the authority,” Ancano states.

Aren only sighs.

“Can we go now?” Rufus asks, playfulness returning to his voice.

Aren waves them off, apologizing curtly for the interruption. No doubt, Tolfdir will want them to return to their studies.

Rufus grabs Onmund’s wrist, practically dragging him back to the stairs. They are halfway down the long flight before Onmund can hear a second pair of boots on the stairs. It must be Ancano.

Determined, Rufus picks up his pace, almost flinging Onmund down the stairs ahead of him, “Ask Tolfdir about the Augur,” he whispers. Rufus stands still on the step above Onmund. 

Ancano draws closer.

“Go,” Rufus mouths, before dashing back up the staircase, disappearing around the gentle curve.

Onmund wants to dash after him, dread settling in his stomach. But Rufus is supposed to be adept at such things, at conversation and subterfuge. Onmund is only clumsy.

He can no longer hear Ancano’s footfall. Rufus must have met him further up the tower. It would be best for him to do as Rufus asks, so he heads to the Hall of Elements, hoping to catch Tolfdir.

Upon reaching the Hall, Onmund finds Tolfdir still engrossed in the Eye, jotting down observations in his tattered notebook as he steps around the orb. He is copying the fine script that no one at the College can read.

Onmund clears his throat, hoping to draw Tolfdir’s attention. The stench he detected earlier has faded. Perhaps it was a side effect from Quaranir attempting to contact him and failing in the Eye’s presence.

Tolfdir jumps slightly at the noise, turning his attention to Onmund. Though he is deeply fascinated with the Eye, it does not seem to hold him as a thrall. So, at least that does not appear to be one of the Eye’s uncatalogued dangers.

“Oh, yes, what did our guest want?” Tolfdir asks, tucking his notebook away.

Onmund shakes his head. Rufus surely would not want to reveal everything. “A mistake. But there is something...we learned from the recovered books.” Truthfully, they did not even have time to read them. But the stolen manuscripts offer as good a cover story as any. “Do you know of the Augur of Dunlain?”

Tolfdir frowns, “I have not heard that name in quite a long time. You said it was in one of the books you recovered?”

Onmund flubs, what does he know of the Augur? That it is at the College, “Written in the margins…”

Tolfdir’s expression softens, “Of course, yes, that makes perfect sense...terrible business with the Augur...best not to speak too much of him.”

“Him?” Onmund asks.

“Such a promising lad,” Tolfdir shakes his head. “I suppose he's still down in the Midden.” Tolfdir will say little more on the matter, only that it must have been a long time since the Augur last had visitors.

Onmund considers asking around the College, to see if there is anything else to be learned. But Tolfdir’s non-explanation, that somehow the Augur both is and isn't present at the College, the muddling of past and present tenses, makes Onmund hesitant to probe further without Rufus.

He returns to the Hall of Attainment, hoping that Rufus will surface soon. But there is that twisting knot in Onmund’s stomach again. He should not have left Rufus alone with Ancano. That was a mistake.

He flops on top of his bed, busying himself with reading Lightning Cloak, though he is far from being ready to attempt casting. At least the difficulty of the spell requires him to focus on the text, keeping him from worrying himself over Rufus.

Onmund does not notice Rufus’ arrival until he slips into his dormitory room. Sitting up in his bed, Onmund puts his book to the side, moving to get up. 

Before Onmund can even get his feet on the floor, Rufus is already slipping into the cot, drawing Onmund’s blanket over himself. Onmund settles back down as well, shifting until he can cover, though still dressed in his robes, it is too warm under the sheets. Rufus keeps tugging until the blanket covers their heads as well.

With the light blotted out by fabric and fur, Onmund can make out the angles of Rufus’s face, but little more. “Ancano knows less than he thinks.”

“Does he?” Onmund can't help but touch, running his fingers along Rufus’ side until his hand settles on the sharp dip of his hip.

Rufus grunts in reply, “He thinks it curious that I am here. I think he believes I am an agent of the Rebellion.”

“Why?”

“Don't think he can tell me from a Nord, to be perfectly honest.”

Onmund laughs at that. Rufus’ accent is so unmistakably southern, that he finds it hard to believe Ancano could make such a mistake.

“All humans probably look alike to him,” Rufus snickers, “besides, I speak with the Dragon’s tongue. So, you know.”

“But if he thinks you work for the Rebellion? Isn't that a threat?”

“It means all his investigations of me will lead nowhere. The same would be true if he thought I was a member of the Imperial Army. I do not exist in the census. Indeed, for all I know, I was announced dead along with my parents years ago. What he thinks he knows will occupy his curiosity, and keep him from even approaching the truth.”

Onmund nods, unsure if Rufus can see. “I asked Tolfdir about the Augur.”

“Oh? And?”

“Whoever he is, he's in the Midden.”

Rufus sighs, “Good. So we do not need to travel far.” Stirring, Rufus reaches out, careful to keep the blankets over their heads. Onmund is starting to sweat. It's growing uncomfortable, but hiding under the layers seems to bring Rufus some comfort. “My head hurts. But...soon, an hour maybe, I can go look,” he brushes his fingers over Onmund’s jaw.

“You should sleep, then, as long as you need.”

“On my way here a Courier stopped me. I need to travel to Whiterun. But let us find this Augur first.”

Onmund wishes he could tell Rufus to forget about the Augur, forget about the Courier, forget about Whiterun and the Graybeards and the Thalmor. But he knows that's not actually feasible. All of these matters require Rufus’ attention. And he will not shirk his responsibilities, as much as he may wish to hide indefinitely in Onmund’s bed.

So, because Onmund has no idea what to say, he tips his head forward, brushing his lips against Rufus’, deepening the kiss when Rufus opens his mouth, twists his hands in Onmund’s robes. 

They shouldn't do this, not here, but they're so close, and Rufus is so warm, smelling of soap and ash. Onmund curls his arm around Rufus’ back, holding him close while they trace into each other’s mouths, sharing breath and confidence.

And again, Onmund thinks about unreasonable things, speaking to a Disciple of Mara, taking Rufus to Riften, making him his spouse. But it's not possible. Not now, not ever. Because all these obligations are raking at Rufus’ mind, tearing him apart. The best thing for Onmund to do is offer small comforts.

Rufus’ fingers tangle in the chain around Onmund’s neck. “I shouldn't have given it to you,” he whispers.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Onmund kisses at Rufus’ jaw. They shouldn't be doing this here. J’Zargo and Brelyna were still out, last Onmund knew. But it's still impolite. “I want to help you.”

“Will you come to the Midden with me?” Rufus asks.

“Of course, and to Whiterun too, if you wish.”

Rufus is already dropping out of consciousness. Their sleep cycles are interrupted beyond repair. “That is too much to ask.”

“You are not asking. I am offering.”

His voice heavy, Rufus replies, “I don't deserve your kindness.”

\--

Onmund slips out at dinner time, eats quickly, and returns with bread and sliced cheese for when Rufus wakes. Surely the others are already whispering about Rufus being asleep in his room, but there is nothing to be done now.

He reads a little, but is too often distracted by Rufus’ face. In his sleep, he has pulled the blankets down off his head. Onmund can see fresh bruising around Rufus’ neck. The marks were invisible in the dark. He will ask about them when Rufus rouses.

It is dark by the time he does, wiping at his eyes and apologizing. They should head for the Midden as soon as possible. Quarnair said that time is running out. 

“Do you feel better?” Onmund asks, reaching for the bread and cheese, “eat.”

Rufus does not fight him, stuffing his mouth with food and speaking before bothering to swallow. “Yes, the headache is gone. Thank you.”

“Your neck,” Onmund ventures. The bruises were not there earlier today. He would have noticed.

Rufus lifts his hand to his neck, exactly over the bruise. “Can you heal it?”

“I can try,” Onmund thinks of gentle things, his little cousins, running through the forest as Spring breaks. The sweet fondness of his parents’ dairy cows. The way Rufus’ hair fell against Onmund’s pillow as he slept. He places his hand over Rufus’ neck, breathing evenly until the spell completes. When he pulls his hand back, Rufus’ neck is pristine. “Who did it? Ancano?”

Rufus does not answer. He doesn't need to.

The sooner they find the Augur, the sooner Rufus can go back to bed. 

Technically, students are not allowed in the midden. Onmund leads the way to the hatch. Perhaps it is best they did not come until after nightfall.

He tugs at the handle, unsurprised to find it locked. Rufus crouches down, lockpick already in hand. He works quickly, pulling the door open and heading down the shaft. Onmund follows and they descend to the level below.

Once the hatch is shut, Rufus removes his overcloak, hanging it over one of the ladder rungs. Now that Onmund knows what Rufus looks like naked, he understands better the fit of his leather armor. He's not weak, only lean.

As they round the first corner, they both hear the unmistakable sound of ice wraiths, the hiss and crackle they make when contracting and expanding. Onmund readies Fire in his hands. Rufus nods, gesturing for Onmund to take the lead.

The first wraith they are able to catch unaware. But the sound of the spell alerts the second, which hurls sharp spikes of ice towards them both. Rufus rolls forward, underneath the projectile. Onmund steps to the side. The spike smashes against the opposite wall, breaking into shards. Onmund sends another small Fire blast, felling the second wraith.

But they are not the only dangers the Midden plans for them. Up ahead is a skittering of many legs. A frost spider, no doubt. Still crouched low, Rufus draws his daggers. This time, he gestures for Onmund to wait.

The next room is dark, while the one with the wraiths is actually quite bright, light reflecting off the ice-crusted walls. The light source isn't discernible from where Onmund waits.

Rufus peeks around the corner, scanning the next room. He takes one more step inside, vanishing into darkness.

The next thing Onmund hears is the wail of the frost spider. It echoes off the walls. Rufus comes running back in, one of his daggers missing. “Get ready,” he barks, ducking behind a pillar of ice.

The spider has trouble coming through the archway, though it tries to spit venom at Onmund through vicious fangs. Some of the muck makes it as far as Onmund’s boots, hissing as it kisses the leather.

Onmund casts Fire, sidestepping to avoid the next blast of toxin. Rufus slides back out, jumping atop the monster’s back and sliding his second dagger deep into its carapace.

Another Fire cast from Onmund’s hand and the spider stops twitching. It may have actually died from Rufus’ blow, but in any case, he is relieved. 

Fishing around in the spider’s side, Rufus draws out his other dagger, wiping it against an unbloodied section of the spider’s fur before sheathing it at his waist.

“We’re getting good at this,” Rufus comments.

“Good at what?”

“Fighting together. It shouldn't work, but it does,” Rufus leaves his mask loose around his neck.

Onmund is only happy that he does not get in Rufus’ way.

They make their way deeper into the catacombs, passing an Atronach forge, which by the look of it, long ago fell into disuse. Still seeing no sign of this Augur, they push further.

The next room is again scaled with ice, an uneven bridge before them. Rufus’ steps are sure along the ice. He reaches back, offering Onmund his hand to steady him as they cross.

They both hear the voice, echoing in the chamber. 

“Turn back, foolish apprentices. The path ahead offers you nothing in return. Turn back.”

Rufus clenches his jaw, stepping from the icy bridge and back onto dry rock. He holds out his hands again to steady Onmund. Now, if they only didn't have to go back the way they came, that would be marvelous. 

Ahead of them is a heavy iron door. Rufus tries to open it, finding it locked. He reaches for his belt when the voice returns. “If you will not go back, the only way is forward.”

The lock on the door clicks open.

“I'm so tired of disembodied voices,” Rufus rubs his forehead.

Onmund runs his hand down the center of Rufus’ back, trying to assure him.

Inside the chamber is dark, the walls, stained red. Long rotting bones are heaped in one corner. Otherwise, the room is empty, no sign of the Augur, and no way out other than the door from which they came.

Once they are both inside, the door clicks closed behind them. Onmund starts at the noise, but Rufus doesn't move, staring into the darkness. “You're here?”

“Yes,” the Augur calls, rendering himself as pure light. He is so bright, Onmund must look away. Half a second passes, and the Augur dims slightly, allowing them to look without pain.

“It has been so long since I last had visitors. And now they come all at once.”

Rufus shakes his head, “Who came to you? Before us?”

“An Altmer, wishing power for himself. Ancano.”

Rufus’ face does not change. “I know him.”

“I told him nothing,” the Augur continues. “I intended to tell you nothing. But you are not like him.”

“No,” Rufus looks back at Onmund, “we are not.”

“I fear it is already too late. And the chain of events set into motion by the Eye of Magnus cannot be reversed. But...the Staff of Magnus...may be able to quell its thirst.”

“Where can I find this Staff of Magnus?” Rufus questions.

“I am uncertain,” the Augur concedes.

“Of course you are.”

\--

Ervine tells Onmund that she was recently approached by a member of the Synod regarding the Staff of Magnus. “Perhaps Rufus will know more of them? He is from Cyrodiil, yes?”

Onmund bites his tongue, knowing he cannot admit that Rufus knew nothing of magic before coming to the College. That he would know much about the Mage organizations in Cyrodiil would be unlikely, though not impossible.

“I heard them speak of traveling to Mzulft next. That there may be a device there, to help them locate the Staff.” She eyes Onmund with great suspicion, “Why the interest?”

“The books,” Onmund stumbles, “said...about.”

Ervine shakes her head, “Fine, do not tell me. That is all I know about the Staff.

Onmund slips away, embarrassed by his own ineptitude. But at least he has the information they need.

\--

Before they can travel to Mzulft, they must attend to Whiterun.

Onmund insists that he travel with Rufus. After all, they fight well together, Onmund smiles, using Rufus’ own words against him.

While Onmund has traveled through Whiterun before, he has never spent a great deal of time inside the walled city. Despite his months at the College, coming to Whiterun reminds Onmund that he is still a bit of a...rural boy. Not boy, he's a man. But still, the bustling traders, the people gathering at every turn, the shouts of the marketplace, and the smell of bodies, take him by surprise. The city is so busy. Much more so than Winterhold, where the townsfolk are in the tavern or nowhere to be seen at all.

Rufus does not drop the hood to his overcloak, dragging Onmund through the streets without stopping to greet a soul. At least one young woman calls for him, using “Dragonborn,” not his name, but Rufus ignores her. Instead, he stops in front of a handsome home, white sided and sturdy, with an expertly thatched roof and modest windows. Onmund cannot help but laugh. This is the first time he's witnessed Rufus use a key to open a door, instead of a lockpick.

Anxious to shut the door behind them, Rufus ushers Onmund into the house. The entryway opens into a small dining area, a hearth and kitchen just beyond. Other than two barrels of root vegetables, Onmund doesn't see food anywhere, though there is also garlic hanging from the ceiling. 

“Lydia?” Rufus calls. When he hears nothing in reply, he relaxes his shoulders. “Good, she must have gone to the Keep, after I last departed.”

“This is your home?” Onmund asks, though it seems rather obvious.

Rufus nods, stripping away his overcloak. Whiterun is a good deal warmer than Winterhold. “A gift from the Jarl. He made me Thane.” He sets about starting a fire in the hearth.

Onmund smiles, “A rogue and a Thane? What a combination.”

“I know,” Rufus rolls his eyes, “everyone seems to overlook who I am, in favor of who I'm supposed to be.” He busies himself in the kitchen, drawing water and setting a kettle over the fire to boil. “And when they lapse, when they see the real person I am,” he shakes his head, “they scold me for it. Like a child who should know better. When they are the ones who made the mistake.”

“What mistake?” Onmund leans against the countertop, letting some of his weight off his tired feet.

Rufus sets about brewing tea for them both once the water is hot. “Thinking I'm a hero, a legend.”

“You're just a man,” Onmund says.

Rufus smiles, “Maybe you should try telling them that.” He turns away, rummaging through one of his crates. “I do not want to go to the market, but I suppose you will be unsatisfied if we do not have meat with our meal?”

Onmund does not want Rufus to fuss over him. That's the last thing he wants. “Won't you?”

Rufus shrugs, “I did not eat so much meat before coming to Skyrim.” He taps his fingers against the table. “It is difficult to avoid it here. Local cooking uses animal fat in almost everything.”

Onmund honestly has not heard of a layman who does not enjoy meat. Some of the more fringe religious zealots, yes. But never otherwise.

“I will be content. Let me help you cook.”

Rufus puts Onmund to work dicing potatoes while he mixes garlic and several spices Onmund has never encountered before, into a heated pot with oil. As the spices warm, the scent fills the small room. It already smells appealing, and technically, none of it is yet food.

Once Onmund finishes with the potatoes, Rufus swoops in to gather them up, tossing them into the pot with the spice concoction. The water off the potatoes splatters when hitting the oil, but the metal pot keeps it from splashing back and scalding them. 

“It's easier to make outside, on an open fire. But we can improvise,” he stirs the pot at regular intervals, keeping the potatoes from burning.

While they wait for the potatoes to soften, they drink their tea. It is unlike the thin, mild teas Onmund sometimes drinks at the College. There is a bite to it, curling around his tongue and trailing down his throat. Rufus must have imported it from Cyrodiil. Or perhaps, Onmund is simply not well versed in such things.

Even without meat, the meal is filling, sitting solidly in Onmund’s belly. Rufus asks several times if it is good? Not too spicy? Or soft? Onmund only repeats that he likes it, though he cannot quite articulate how.

“Tomorrow, we will see the Jarl. We should go tonight, but…” Rufus uncorks a bottle of wine, taking a swig directly from the bottle before handing it to Onmund.

“You deserve the break.”

Rufus takes the bottle back once Onmund has drank. After his next gulp, he blurts, “Lay with me?”

Onmund stares at Rufus, unsure how to respond.

“You wouldn't, at the inn, when you found out...that I am inexperienced. And I thought you would reject me at the College as well, for the lack of privacy. But we are alone here. So we could…”

“Stop drinking,” Onmund says softly. “I...would prefer if you were not drunk...if we are to…”

Rufus nods quickly, “Okay, yes.” Rufus’ long fingers flutter to the front of his armor starting at the buckles.

“Wait,” Onmund urges, “ah, let us talk, first?”

Stilling his hands, Rufus inhales deeply, “What more is there to talk about? You now know that I only know of sex from books. How else do you wish to embarrass me?”

“I do not want to embarrass you at all,” Onmund says, “just the opposite...what would you like to try?”

“I want to...suck your cock…”

Onmund cannot help the flash of heat down his spine, pooling in his abdomen. Because despite their unfortunate misunderstanding the last time, Rufus’ lips are still beautifully plush. 

“And I want you to fuck me? I think about it...a lot…”

Onmund feels his ears warm too. Though he has been with both women and men, nothing more than passing encounters before he came to the College, he is more experienced with being taken than the reverse. “I won't be able to do both in a single night,” Onmund admits.

Rufus laughs nervously, “I at least know that part of the stories is an exaggeration. When they come four or five times in one evening. Um...so you could show me how to suck you, then?”

Onmund nods. This he can do with some confidence. In fact, he has a brilliant plan. “Where is your bed?”

“Upstairs,” Rufus practically whines with anticipation.

“Okay, alright, let's go upstairs.” 

Rufus tugs off his boots before ascending the stepladder. Onmund’s suspicions are confirmed, the enchantment is unnecessary for Rufus to move silently. The rungs do not so much as creak under his weight.

Onmund shucks his boots as well before following Rufus to the loft.

The space above is tidier than the rooms below. Rufus lights an oil lamp to chase away the darkness. It casts long shadows over the floorboards. “Can I undress now?” Rufus teases, biting his tongue.

“Let me help?”

Rufus nods.

Taking Onmund’s hands in his, Rufus directs Onmund to each buckle in turn, opening them in the proper order so they can peel the leather away from his slightly damp skin. Onmund is no longer surprised at how soft Rufus’ skin is under his fingertips, warm and shuddering with life as blood moves through his veins. If he's cut, he’ll bleed. If stabbed, he’ll die. It's best to remember that.

“You too?” Rufus asks, once he's stripped down to his smalls. 

Onmund takes Rufus’ hands this time, though his robes are much simpler. A few buttons to loosen the collar, then the whole thing up and over Onmund’s head. Rufus unlaces the front of Onmund’s tunic without assistance, running the leather cords around his fingers.

Onmund drops his hands to Rufus’ bare hips, squeezing down over bone until Rufus starts to tug off Onmund’s tunic. He tosses it into the rapidly growing pile on the floor.

They haven't kissed. It seems a tragedy that they haven't. So Onmund places his lips against Rufus’, parting them to deepen, to remind Rufus that they are in this together now. And Onmund does not mean simply sex, or battle, or clumsy diplomacy. He means everything. He wants this to mean everything.

Rufus tugs at Onmund’s breeches, getting the laces loose before shoving them off of Onmund’s hips. They are still not quite bare, but close enough that every point of contact feel electric, sliding in the narrow gaps that still remain between their bodies, sticking them ever closer together with a static hum.

“Let me show you?” Onmund offers, skimming kisses down Rufus’ exposed neck. Onmund has not been with someone so perfectly his own height. He could get used to the access it affords.

He has gotten used to Rufus.

Climbing into bed, Rufus sets his back against the headboard, knees slightly bent towards his chest. Onmund recognizes it as the same position he adopted in the tavern. So, Rufus does learn by imitation. This will make things easier, because Onmund is not sure he has the confidence to explain in words how to use your mouth on another man’s cock. But he has the knowledge to do it himself.

He traces patterns on the insides of Rufus’ thighs, admiring how his breath quickens at each stroke. He travels close to, but not yet at, the head of Rufus’ still covered cock. Running his fingers through the coarse hair leading down to Rufus’ groin, he tugs away his smalls, freeing Rufus from the confines.

Laying flat on his stomach, Onmund hooks his arms under Rufus’ knees to keep his legs spread. He takes Rufus’ cock down his throat, hollowing his cheeks and sucking down, careful to keep teeth away from soft skin. Rufus tastes faintly of sweat and salty pre-cum, already leaking in anticipation. When Onmund bobs his head, Rufus gasps, his thigh muscles tightening.

Onmund tries to calm him, stroking his hand across Rufus’ leg before drawing it around to cup his balls in one hand. He's not going to oversell his prowess. It is not that he is an exceptionally talented lover. Only he has a little experience. But this is the most time he's ever managed to take with another person’s body. He hasn't managed to care so much before.

If asked, perhaps Onmund would say he has loved every person he has taken to bed. If only for the half hour or hour they spent together. Love can be fleeting, like that. Striking and fragile and sure to wilt once exposed to the cold.

But that is not what he believes as Rufus tangles his fingers in Onmund’s hair, spills all too quickly down his throat with a guttural noise that ends in a deep sigh of satisfaction, still laced with need to fulfil something more. Because Rufus is always already cold. And they are both unwilling to be torn apart so easily.

He swallows quickly, disliking the taste, but it is the most convenient option.

“Oh...Onmund...oh,” Rufus’ eyes are wide. “I should...let me.”

Onmund hikes his body further up the bed to lean next to Rufus. It is good that the bed is large enough for two. Throwing his arm around Rufus’ shoulders, he pulls him close, kissing the side of Rufus’ head, just where his hairline ends and skin begins. “You don't have to.”

“I want to.” He runs his hand down the center of Onmund’s chest, over the chain still around his neck, tapping against the amulet, stopping just at the waistline of his smalls. “Just, talk to me. So I know what to do.”

Onmund isn't sure he's going to be coherent enough, or composed enough, to give any sort of direction. Because despite the setback they encountered last time, he aches for Rufus. He really does. He didn't expect it to be like this.

Flipping over on his hands and knees, Rufus straddles Onmund, pulling at his smalls until Onmund can kick them away. Rufus switches from having his legs on the outside of Onmund’s to folding them between his legs. Onmund bends his knees, straightens his back, and waits.

He doesn't mind being exposed like this very much, being open, vulnerable. Rufus studies him quite carefully, the same look Onmund saw before. As if he's not sure. At least now, Onmund knows the source of Rufus’ hesitation.

Slowly, Rufus leans forward, bending his long body in half to take the head of Onmund’s cock past his lips. He's exceedingly careful with his teeth, keeping them well away from Onmund’s sensitive skin.

Rufus closes his lips, sucking gently, then running his tongue along the underside of Onmund’s cock. He tries again, and again, pulling off slightly, pushing back down, until Onmund’s breath catches, until he groans.

It's entirely too slow, to teasing to bear. Chasing a thread of satisfaction that at once feels too close and desperately far away. Rufus sinks down a little further, his throat fluttering involuntarily as he starts to gag and he has to pull off. 

Rufus coughs once, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Onmund should tell him to stop. It's okay. But before he can say anything, Rufus sinks onto him again, this time with more confidence, stopping just short of his limit.

He moves faster now, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head, still not taking Onmund very deep, but with a pace and heat and wetness that makes the edge so much sharper. Onmund feels himself tightening, as Rufus’ fingers ghost along his balls, skimming up the inside of his thigh.

“Rufus,” he tries to warn. Better that he come against his stomach and they clean up afterwards. “Rufus, I'm going to come,” he manages to say. Though perhaps his enunciation is less clear than he thinks. Nothing at all seems very clear at the moment, his pulse racing and vision fogging down to the singular sensation of Rufus’ lips wrapped around his cock.

He can't help the rise of his hips to meet Rufus’ mouth as he comes, hands shuddering in the sheets, trying not to grab hold of Rufus suddenly.

When Rufus pulls off, he makes a face, clearly displeased with the taste, but trying to hide it. “Was that alright?” His lips look even more obscene.

Onmund nods weakly. He just wants to melt into the bed, sleep for an age. But tomorrow, Rufus has to see the Jarl. “Yes, Talos...we’ll have to do that again.”

Rufus beams, “I'll get better,” he laughs. “I'm quick to learn.”

He's going to be Onmund’s demise with that smile.

\--

When Onmund wakes, Rufus is already dressing. He pulls on dark, narrow fitting trousers and a tunic that is finely made, but hangs perhaps too loose from his bony shoulders. Onmund watches as he busies himself, combing back his hair and tying it off with a short white ribbon. It's not terribly long, but tying it back keeps it from falling into his face. All things considered, he looks rather proper. Fitting, to be meeting with a Jarl.

“You do not have to come,” Rufus sits on the edge of the bed running his hand over Onmund’s chest. “Hopefully it will not take long.”

Onmund takes Rufus’ hand and draws it to his lips. “Let me?”

Rufus nods.

“Should I wear Mage robes? Or would that displease Jarl Balgruuf?”

“Wear them,” Rufus responds, “you shouldn't be ashamed of who you are. Simply because some idle politician thinks it's unfitting.”

It's more complicated than that. But Onmund does not wish to explain.

He dresses quickly and before they depart, Rufus musses with Onmund’s hair, pushing it so it all goes in one direction.

And that, of all things, is what makes Onmund decide he must find an Amulet of Mara. As soon as possible. Because Rufus is only a man. And Onmund should not be very afraid of him. He should not be so afraid of finding happiness.

\--

“You cannot go on like this.” Mercifully, Rufus’ meeting with the Jarl is in a set of private chambers, where Balgruuf meets with his advisors, instead in the Grand Hall. Though, if it were someplace more public, perhaps Onmund would not stand out so much.

Rufus’ housecarl, Lydia, is there as well. Dressed in full plate armor and looking rather bored with the proceedings, she has not spoken a word. But it is not her place to offer advice.

“Of course I can,” Rufus objects. “I owe nothing to Ulfric Stormcloak. He has no claim over me. I will not interfere in his Rebellion, and he will not interfere with my obligations. That is all.”

“I have received representatives from the Imperial Army as well, Cloelius,” the Jarl warns.

Onmund has not heard Rufus’ family name before today. He should not be surprised it is so strikingly Imperial in origin.

“I do not wish to aid either side,” Rufus’ half-truth is entirely convincing. “Let them both do as they like.”

“Rufus,” Jarl Balgruuf sounds very much like he is scolding an petulant child, though Rufus’ tone has been firm and measured. “I feel this will end poorly, if you refuse to even entertain their invitations. Jarl Ulfric will not hesitate to brand you a traitor to Skyrim.”

“And the General will call me a traitor to the Empire. Each will use my refusal to their own ends, as soon as they would use my agreement,” he sighs. “I will think on it. I only apologize that I have put you in this position,” Rufus concludes politely. “Is there anything else?”

“You can collect the letters they have left for you,” he gestures to the rolls of parchment spread out across the table. “I have no need for them.”

Rufus groans.


	4. Chapter 4

Rufus moves with great grace. He always does, when he is not thinking very deeply about himself. Onmund feels privileged, having now seen Rufus at his clumsiest, laughing and hesitating and sweet second guessing. Yes, of course, he is oddly beautiful in motion, long limbed and narrow hipped, with dark hair against pleasantly green-tinged skin, showing through peachy cheeks when he flushes. But he is enticing too in stillness, breathing evenly, lips slightly parted.

Since Onmund woke, he has been questioning his own motives. Again. He thinks himself selfish for wanting, brave for intending to ask. But when will they even find the time to travel to Riften? What if Rufus does not wish it? What if they do not live long enough to know?

Rufus wakes, stretching his arms over his head with eyes still closed. As they open, he smiles, butting his head into Onmund’s side before rolling onto his stomach and drawing up on all fours. He swings one leg over Onmund’s hips, straddling him, grinding their groins together with a cant of his hips.

“Good morning,” Rufus wraps his arms around Onmund’s shoulders.

They’ll depart as soon as possible, leaving Whiterun and heading North to Mzulft. 

Neither of them have experience with Dwemer ruins. Though Onmund grew up not far from one of the gleaming dwarven metal entrances, leading presumably to caverns below, tucked into a gentle hillside, overgrown with hearty bushes that pricked him when he walked too close.

Over time, men would chip away at the door, harvesting shards of metal to sell to blacksmiths, who care little of the origin of their materials, so long as the quality is fine. 

And so each year of Onmund’s childhood, the door would suffer new wounds, carved into its almost-mirrored flesh. But not a soul tried to open the door, to see what lay beneath.

Rufus moves his arms from Onmund’s shoulders and instead presses his hands flat to Onmund’s chest, spreading his long fingers wide, tangling two of them in the chain around Onmund’s neck. In Onmund’s lap like this, Rufus has to duck his head lower to brush his lips over Onmund’s.

Onmund wraps his arms around Rufus’ waist, holding him close as they enjoy their last moments of privacy. He doesn't know where they’ll go after Mzulft. Perhaps back to the College, perhaps another wild goose chase to another abandoned ruin? Meddling with histories and magics they can't possibly understand. Perhaps Rufus finally concedes to meeting with General Tullius. Onmund is under no delusion that Rufus would ever choose the other side.

“Pay attention to me,” Rufus encourages, switching from the pads of his fingers to short-cut nails cutting down Onmund's chest. He doesn't apply nearly enough pressure to break skin, but Onmund is fair enough that the scrape leaves red welts behind. They start fading as soon as they bloom. “I told you before...I want to get fucked.”

Onmund can't help the way his blood comes to the surface, he can feel the warmth spreading across his skin. He's hard under Rufus, trying not to say something ridiculous. “How do you know you'll even like it?”

“How will I know without trying?” Rufus teases back, grabbing Onmund's wrists and wrenching them away from his hips, dragging them against the headboard and pinning them there. He grinds down again, smirking at how clever he thinks he is. “You want me?”

“Of course I do,” Onmund admits, “but, Talos, are you pushy.”

Rufus laughs. “We might not get another chance...for awhile.”

Onmund has thought the same, “Okay, do you have lubricant? Oil?”

Rufus nods, letting go of Onmund’s wrists to reach across to his bedside dresser.  
Yanking open the drawer, he fishes around inside, coming back with two vials.

“What's the difference?” Onmund asks, picking up one of the vials. The glass is of high quality, heavy and precisely blown. They are externally identical, both clear as pure water, though the vial Onmund holds is more than half empty, the second is three-quarters full.

Rufus plucks the first vial from Onmund’s hand, “This one is fortified with honeycomb, the other with purple mountain flower. They're both specially brewed for...intimate use. I brought them with me from Cyrodiil City. There's a shop there.”

“Do you like this one more?” Onmund nods towards the vial in Rufus’ hand.

“A bit, the other is so...floral.” Rufus uncaps the honey vial before holding it out, “see? Smell.”

Onmund inhales the slight sweetness of the oil. While he would normally scoff at the idea of honey-anything being involved in intercourse, if they are specialty oils, there is probably no harm, and the actual honey content low. The oil certainly looks to have the right consistency. “How do you use it?” 

“Ah,” Rufus looks away, then back at Onmund, “just when I stroke myself. Mostly. I've tried before, with my fingers, but...it’s hard to concentrate.”

Onmund groans, thinking about Rufus on his back, sliding his fingers into himself. Better yet is that Onmund can touch him now, even if there is still a knot of anxiety in his gut. He wants to make sure this is good for Rufus. That he performs well.

“Get on your back, okay?” Onmund takes the vial from Rufus’ hand, careful not to spill. He has to fish around in the sheets to find the stopper.

Rufus flops out of Onmund’s lap and onto the sheets. His smallclothes are still around his hips, but while Onmund moves to climb between his legs, he shucks them quickly, tossing them off the bed.

His cock heavy against his abdomen, Rufus idly runs his fingers along his shaft, waiting for Onmund to touch him. Onmund settles between his legs, nudging his knees apart.

Onmund puts his hand over Rufus’, giving him a few short strokes with their fingers twined together while leaning over to kiss him. Rufus pushes his tongue back into Onmund’s mouth, spreading him, swallowing down his breaths.

Onmund has to pull back to look at what he's doing. Uncapping the vial again, he dribbles oil into his palm. The slightly sweet scent wafts through the room again, becoming stronger as he slicks the oil over his fingers and it warms.

Stroking one finger against Rufus’ entrance, Onmund thinks about his own breathing first, trying not to shake. But Rufus’ eyes are wide and waiting. He needs to act.

Gently, he presses his index finger against Rufus’ entrance, circling around the rim until the pad of his finger breeches Rufus. Slick with oil, it slides in easily, once Rufus opens for him. Onmund eases inside, listening for the way Rufus’ breath catches, then rolls into a low groan.

“Onmund…”

His mouth feels impossibly dry, watching Rufus’ chest as he breathes in and out, then glancing to where his finger disappears into Rufus’ body. “Rufus? Is it alright.”

“Yes...just...ah, I can take more, I know I can.”

Onmund kisses Rufus’ bent knee, drawing his index finger back out. He presses his index and middle fingers close together, checking they are still oiled enough, before circling Rufus’ hole again. There's more resistance this time, but Rufus doesn't complain. He doesn't breathe a word. The steady sound of his breathing fills the room. Onmund has forgotten how to breathe.

Focusing on the rhythm of his fingers, Onmund pumps gently into Rufus, waiting for the tension to ease. Inside he is soft, wet with oil, sucking Onmund’s fingers down. It's impossible not to want to replace his fingers with his cock. But Rufus isn't ready yet, still too tight and tense.

“Does it feel good?” Onmund asks.

“It doesn't feel bad?” Rufus starts, “I want you to keep going. I want this.”

“Rufus?” Onmund doesn't stop, feeling Rufus loosen a little, and using the opportunity to cautiously spread his fingers. He's worried it's not slick enough. Drawing his fingers partway out, Onmund fumbles with the vial in his other hand, getting it open with his teeth and lacing more oil over his hand. Some of it drips onto the sheets.

This time when he pushes back in, his fingers glide. Rufus lets out a soft, “Oh,” at the pressure, spreading his knees further apart. 

“Better?”

“Yes,” Rufus hisses, starting to buck his hips into Onmund’s hand.

On the next stroke, Onmund slides a third finger in. He pumps half a dozen times, watching as Rufus’ cock gets fully hard again, bouncing against his stomach with each gentle thrust.

Onmund considers just continuing along this path, stroking Rufus’ cock with one hand while keeping the other tucked inside his body. It would be so easy. Rufus leaks against his stomach, hands twisted in the sheets. It would be pleasure enough to watch him come.

“Please, I think I'm ready,” Rufus urges.

And it crests again, the deep seeded desire to be inside Rufus. The compulsion Onmund tries to subsume, because he's too afraid of being pulled under. He’ll drown.

“Please.”

Onmund slicks his cock with the oil, re-capping the bottle with shaking hands. He holds his cock, lining it up to slide into Rufus’ stretched hole. With the sink of his hips, he takes Rufus, sheathing his cock halfway inside. Rufus bucks up, wrapping his legs around Onmund’s waist and trying to pull him deeper. But Onmund won't budge. For all of Rufus’ enthusiasm, he's still too tight, constricting around Onmund’s cock, keeping him from going any further.

“Kiss me,” Rufus asks, parting wet lips. Onmund leans forward to do so, a brush of mouths and teeth. He almost slides out, but when he presses back down, he's able to slide further inside.

Rufus laughs, “You're big.”

“No,” Onmund corrects. He's really not.

“From where I'm laying, you're fucking huge. So don't argue.”

Onmund can't help but laugh. “I'm not hurting you, am I? Going too fast?”

“No,” Rufus opens his eyes again. They're slightly damp, but clear and bright. “I just don't know what I expected.”

“We could stop?” Onmund doesn't want to stop. Because every time Rufus breathes, he can feel him, pulsing, living, squeezing down. He's so, so warm and the tightness is a siren, calling out to Onmund across the gulf between them.

“Don't you dare,” Rufus warns. “I won't break. You should fuck me.”

“You might.” Rufus is only a man.

“Won’t.” He squeezes down on Onmund, with his hole but also with his legs, trying to force Onmund deeper. With a sharp snap, Onmund bottoms out, his hips flush with Rufus’ body. “Fuck!” Rufus shouts. “Don't move, don't move,” he pants.

Onmund is too stunned to do anything. Below him, Rufus has softened, his shaking hands coming to wrap around Onmund’s arms.

“Okay, move.”

There are a hundred more questions on Onmund’s tongue, spilling down the back of his throat. They taste bitter, with coarse edges. It would be selfish, to ask Rufus all of them. Any of them. So he pulls out, just enough, before rocking back in.

Rufus’ eyes close, his hands don't loosen. “Don't stop, I'm fine, please, want this. Want it.”

Onmund tries again, as gentle as he can manage. Though Rufus may not feel the same, Onmund cannot help the way his body responds. He's hard, full of desire and wanting to chase down pleasure, catch it, wring its neck. 

Rufus takes his own hand to his cock, stroking it quickly, bringing it back to attention. “Move,” he pants again, “I want to feel…”

Onmund deepens his strokes, but moves no faster, watching the concentration in Rufus’ jaw, spreading out from the center of his forehead as he adjusts. Trying a different angle of his hips knocks the wind out of Rufus.

“That, that…”

Trying to repeat the movement, find the right beat, Onmund moves quicker now, wanting to make Rufus come undone. Knowing that he won't last much longer either. Because his mind and body can't agree if this is glorious or frustrating. But Rufus is hard again. He's rolling his hips and sucking down breath, telling Onmund it's good. He's good. It's what he wanted. 

“Want you to come inside of me.”

Onmund hangs his head, trying to suppress his groan, trying to hide just how much he likes the idea. How the thought of Rufus filled, wet and sticky with his cum as they travel North makes him ravenous. Like he’ll never be quite satiated again, unless he can have this.

Rocking into Rufus’ body, he comes, feeding from Rufus’ contented moans, the softness of his skin, brushing against Onmund’s stomach. Rufus’ hand is still moving, though not for long. He pushes his face into Onmund's shoulder to muffle the noise, though there is no one to hear them.

\--

The road North is clear, fresh caravan tracks along the path, and a bright blue sky, despite the settling chill. Onmund doesn't find the weather terribly hostile, but Rufus tugs on his gloves.

There are still a great many miles between them and Mzulft. They talk very little as they walk. Onmund does not mind, content enough to listen to the wind, the chattering sounds of birds, and his own footsteps. Rufus’ quiet is not unnerving in the least, because Onmund now associates it with comfort. 

Up ahead of them, a cart is stopped along the road, still too far away for Onmund to make out the details of what is wrong. 

“Careful,” Rufus whispers, squeezing his gloved hand in Onmund’s bare one.

Once they can see a single man, crouched low to the ground, examining his wagon wheel, Rufus calls out, “Hello? Are you alright?”

Onmund thought they were being careful?”

The man bounces up, nearly leaping off the ground. He's dressed extremely peculiar, in a red jester’s hat and colorful frock, though his attire is stained with dirt and sweat. While he may be a traveling entertainer, Onmund feels ice down his spine from the very beginning.

“Hello? Hello, hello!” The man shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the tassels on his hat swinging back and forth as he fidgets. Delicate bells ring with each step. “Bother and befuddle, stuck, here, stuck!” The man is short, perhaps six inches shorter than Onmund and Rufus, with dirty red hair and a broad face. “My mother! Mother...at rest, but too still.”

Rufus winces, putting his hand to his forehead, then pulling it away. “What is the problem?” his voice is soft.

“Poor Cicero is stuck, can't you see? I was transporting, dear, sweet mother...well! Not her! Her corpse, she is quite dead,” he barks with laughter.

Rufus cannot look away from the cart. “That she is.”

Cicero starts bouncing on the balls of his feet again, his smile fixed to his features. 

“I'm taking mother to a new home. A new crypt. But the wagon wheel broke, don't you see?” Reaching forward, Cicero comes up on his toes, skirting his fingers along Rufus’ jaw to get his attention. Onmund wants to take the jester’s hand clean off. But Rufus turns his head, grabbing Cicero’s wrist.

“How can I help you?”

Onmund’s stomach drops. He thinks of Rufus’ parents, of Rufus’ abduction immediately after. Did his mother even have a burial? Surely, if Rufus was not lying and they were diplomats, someone would have been there to find the bodies, to give them proper rites. 

As much as Onmund may not like Cicero, he will not insist that Rufus leave him and his mother behind.

Cicero begins twirling, grabbing hold of Rufus’ other hand and leading him in a messy waltz around the broken down cart. Rufus, unlike Cicero, knows the right steps. And while it may be Cicero’s apparent madness that spurs them to dance, Rufus takes the lead, dropping one hand around Cicero’s waist.

Babbling, Cicero continues, “I knew, I knew you would help me! You have a very pretty voice, and very pretty eyes. Mother likes you already.”

Rufus brings them to a halt, his face tightening. “We’ll go to the farm, up the road. Get tools to fix the wagon.”

“Yes!” Cicero nods enthusiastically, refusing to let go of Rufus’ hands. “Loreius. I asked. He refused to help. But you will make him help. With your pretty voice, and pretty eyes.” Lifting his hand again, Cicero tugs at a strand of Rufus’ hair, come loose from the knot. “I have gleaming, shiny coin. For a reward.” He smiles, “Other rewards, for you. If you'd like?” Cicero laughs, pulling away from Rufus and heading back towards his cart. “Thank you, thank you, pretty thrush!”

Saying nothing, Rufus returns to Onmund’s side, “Let us speak to the farmer, Loreius. He can help Cicero. And we can be on our way.”

Onmund doesn't know what to say, if there is anything at all. If he was supposed to object when Cicero touched Rufus, running his fingers along his skin? He wanted to claw at Cicero, put him in the ground. But even if he and Rufus are sleeping together, Rufus does not belong to him. They are nothing, really, but friends. It does not matter how sweetly Rufus asked for him this morning. Without Mara’s blessing, they are nothing.

“Why do you want to help him?” It is the only question Onmund can settle on. The only one that isn't too sour to speak.

Rufus shakes his head, pats his forehead again, and responds, “Mother should make it safely to her new crypt.”

\--

They wind their way through the gold-capped Dwemer ruins, trying to find the entrance to Mzulft. The collection of atriums and archways makes the complex more difficult to navigate than it should be. Each time they turn, looking for a staircase to the next landing, they're faced with broken paths and obstructed passages. Onmund can only imagine what it will be like once they are inside.

“I think it's this way,” Rufus muses, though Onmund has no idea how he came to that conclusion. Ahead of them is a solid wall of carved rock, a railing edging the next platform up above. “Let me check.”

Rufus takes a running start, his bag bouncing against his back as he dashes forward. Kicking one foot against the wall, he launches himself up the solid vertical face, grabbing hold of the railings and flipping over the bar. 

Even if this is the way forward, Onmund will never be able to get up the same way.

Once Rufus is out of his line of sight, Onmund can only wait. Hopefully, if something goes wrong, he’ll at least scream for help. But only a few minutes pass and Rufus leans over the railing, “I've found a door. Now we’ve just got to get you up.”

“I'm not acrobat….” Onmund warns.

“No, but, do you think you can fit in between the platform and the lowest rung of the railing?” he asks.

Onmund eyes the gap. It's narrow, but he's sure out of his robes, he would fit. Fully dressed, he's not sure how the fabrics will compress. “Maybe?”

Rufus lies flat on his belly, reaching his hands out through the gap. “Grab hold, try to walk up the side until you can hold onto the edge, pull yourself through?”

“I think now you're overestimating my strength?” He's honestly not sure this will work. It will require a fair bit of upper body strength to pull himself through the gap. 

“Are you telling me your hot body is just for show?” Rufus teases. 

“I'm not…” Onmund tries to formulate an objection, “Fine, we’ll try.”

He grabs onto Rufus’ wrists, planting one foot against the wall to try and walk up it. At least Rufus doesn't move when Onmund tugs at him, trying to get his footing. He switches his grip, holding further up the length of Rufus’ arms. Another push and he's able to grab onto the railing himself, pulling up until he's standing on the lip of the platform. From there, he can climb over the bars, though with some effort, instead of sliding under. 

“That works too,” Rufus chirps, hopping to his feet. He just looks pleased they have made it. Rufus is content as well that he didn't have to make a fool of himself, sliding under the thick railing bar. “This way.”

Rufus leads them to the entrance. The imposing Dwemer doors are similar to the one from Onmnud’s childhood, though almost twice the size. He lived near one of the side passages, one without even a name, not one of the grand structures like Mzulft. 

Pushing at the door, it swings open for Rufus without much effort, though the machinery groans. Too long left in disuse, the cogs no longer spin smoothly. But at least the door functions. Onmund is not sure how they would be able to push it open if they pulleys no longer worked.

There are lights in the sconces, illuminating the entryway. The walls are lined with steam pipes and the floors ornately engraved. Above them, the high ceiling is blanketed in thicker tubes, all made of Dwemer alloy, glinting like false-gold.

Against one wall, a hooded Mage groans, his hand pressed to his side. Wet, vivid blood drips over his knuckles, running between his fingers.

Rufus heads directly towards him, crouching down low. “Hello? Sir? Can we help?” 

The man groans again, lolling his head to one side. All color has drained from his face. He's losing blood fast. Onmund readies Healing in one hand, tucking in next to Rufus to place the spell over the man’s open wound.

“Move your hand,” Onmund urges.

The Imperial on the ground keeps still. Onmund has to pull away his hand himself to administer the spell. It seals the wound, but Onmund knows now from the depth of the gash that this is beyond his ability. 

“I've come...with Paratus Decimius,” he wheezes. “The focusing crystal...taken…”

“Are you with the Synod?” Rufus asks.

“Yes.”

“We’ve come, looking for the Staff of Magnus.”

“Take the key, from my robes, Decimius…”

The Mage does not even have the strength to cough. When he dies, he only breathes a little heavier, then stops, his body going lax. Rufus doesn't hesitate to search his pockets, pulling out the key of which he spoke.

“I guess we go forward,” Rufus winces, fitting the key into the door ahead of them. He does not bother to look back at the corpse. There is nothing to be done.

\--

Onmund’s spells do little to fight back the Dwarven automatons. No matter what destruction spell he conjures, the effects are lackluster. The best he can hope for is to provide a small distraction, so Rufus can pounce behind and gain an advantage. 

But even with Rufus’ blades, it's difficult to fell the metal creatures. Rufus must aim precisely, severing their internal stitching so that they fall apart like ripe fruit into component parts. Rufus and Onmund take more damage than they deal. Onmund’s robes are torn and he still feels the aftershocks of the spiders’ strange electricity coursing down his arms and legs. 

“We have to stop,” Rufus pants, once the room is clear. “Bar the doors. We’ll figure something out.”

Onmund finds a metal serving dish, long enough to wedge under the handles of the doors back the way they came. Rufus ties off the other door with sturdy rope. Hopefully, this will give them a moment’s peace.

“Are you alright?” Rufus asks, even though he's the one bleeding slightly from his forehead. A Dwarven sphere caught him with its sword in the last room.

“I should be asking you that,” Onmund wipes at Rufus’ forehead to examine the gash. It's barely thicker than a hair. Rufus must have jumped out of the way just in time. Onmund was otherwise distracted when it happened, trying to keep a metal spider from shredding his robes.

“We’re getting our asses kicked,” Rufus rubs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Makes me wish for more Falmer.”

Onmund nods. They've seen a few of the Falmer, the terrifying, blind Mer with little language, butchered customs. They only scream when they die. They only scream when they lunge. They only scream. Onmund is sure that the memory of their twisted bodies will haunt him for years to come. He had not known that such creatures lived below ground. He did not know.

But at least they die easily. And with their sharp teeth and empty eye sockets, Onmund can tell himself death is a kindness.

At least for now.

“What do we do, what do we do?” Rufus paces the floor with silent steps. “Magic doesn't work, at least not well. And it's so difficult to slip my blade between their seams. There has to be a way…”

“Crushing?” Onmund offers, but neither of them carries an axe or mace.

Rufus laughs, “Yeah, just hold on a second, let’s re-do all our training.”

If they had an axe, maybe Onmund could use it. But that doesn't strengthen their position, because he's still dressed in robes and not armor. Neither of them are equipped for taking direct blows.

“I don't know if we have another choice...we’ll just have to move room to room,” Rufus groans, “I guess no time like the present to practice your healing spells, right?” he tries to stay upbeat.

“You could practice too,” Onmund ventures.

“Do you really want to be on the receiving end of my healing spells?”

Onmund considers for a moment the warm, gentle breeze of Rufus’ half-baked heal. Ineffective, but somehow luminous. “There are worse things in the world.”

\--

They find the focusing crystal, tucked into the dirty loincloth of a fallen Falmer. Rufus shoves the bauble into his pocket before trying to get reoriented. They've been exploring the ruins for hours. Keeping this up will be impossible.

While Onmund waits for his magicka to recover, Rufus sits against the wall. Too tired to even bar the door, Rufus just keeps his eyes on the archway. Hopefully they'll be undisturbed. 

Over their heads, steam rushes through the pipes. Onmund can't even guess its destination. How is it the machines still work? The hiss and bubble puts him on edge. Many of the automatons make the same noises, though on a smaller scale.

“One more room,” Rufus says, “then we have to...camp, I guess.”

Onmund agrees, “One more room.” He places his hands over Rufus’ injured shoulder. He can't mend the armor, but he can knit the broken flesh, at least well enough they can move again. When he pulls his hands back, Rufus’ skin is unmarred. There's no point in wiping away the blood. “After this, you'll need new armor.”

Rufus smiles, his head still against the wall. “And you'll need new robes,” he tugs at the fabric over Onmund’s chest.

Heading into the next room, Onmund can hear footsteps other than his own. Not the whirl of the Dwarven spheres, or the bare feet of Falmer, but boots on stone.

The hallway is empty, so the footsteps must be in the next room up ahead. Rufus tries the door and finding it locked, reaches for his lockpick.

“Hello?” A voice calls from the other side, just as Rufus fidgets in the lock. “Who is there?”

Rufus stops with his lockpick. “My name is Rufus…”

Another hooded Imperial swings open the door, taking Rufus’ lockpick with it. He is older, with heavy jowls and thick arms. “I was expecting Gavros Plinius,” nonetheless, he ushers Rufus and Onmund into the next room, shutting the door behind them.

“There was a man, by the entrance of the ruins,” Rufus explains, “he said something about a focusing crystal?”

“Yes, yes!” the man exclaims, “We need it to work the Oculory.” He looks Rufus up and down, then Onmund, “You two are in quite the state.”

Rufus rolls his eyes, “We had some difficulty reaching you.”

“Yes...the inhabitants are still quite animated. We were not expecting as much…” his voice fades. “But I should introduce myself, I am Paratus Decimius, of the Synod.”

“Ah, as I said, I'm Rufus, this is Onmund...we’re from the College of Winterhold.”

Decimius, narrows his eyes at Rufus, “Rufus? What is your patronymic?”

“Cloelius,” Rufus says easily. And for the first time, Onmund considers that it is probably a false name. ‘Rufus’ may well be a false name as well, if he was presumed dead after his parents’ murder.

How little does Onmund really know?

“I do not know your family,” Decimius observes.

“It is a small one. Do not fault us for being humble.”

“Fair,” Decimius concedes. “And I suppose it cannot be helped if you are from that wretched little College. The rest of my party has met a grim end. But I need that focusing crystal before I can continue my research here.”

Reaching into his pocket, Rufus produces the crystal they found earlier. “This?”

“Yes! Yes!” Decimius grabs up the crystal. Rufus does not fight him for it. “Come, let me show you what it is capable of. It is only fair.”

Decimius leads them further up the ramp, to another locked door. On the other side is a room unlike any other in the ruins. Huge, with a domed ceiling, and dark. Two walkways lead up to a central platform. All above their heads is a blanket of false stars, golden rings, and glass plates suspended from a system of valves and gears. Onmund cannot begin to contemplate what magics it took to build this place.

Decimius leads them up the ramp to the platform.

“This,” Decimius explains, “is the Oculory of the Dwemer. We know that it collects starlight, but not much else. But! With this focusing crystal, of my own design, we hope to harness the machine’s power to aid in our research.” He places the crystal into the podium in front of them. Once inserted, three spheres on the podium begin to glow faintly.

“Now, we should be able to control the focus with simple spells…”

“You do not know how to work the Oculory?” Rufus questions.

“I do not know the precise solution, no. It was impossible to determine without the focusing crystal.”

Rufus is dead on his feet. Placing his hand on the podium to steady himself, he argues with Decimius, “Then how do you know it will work at all?”

“Our research has shown…”

Onmund speaks up, “Let me try,” he pushes Decimius gently out of the way.

As far as Onmund can tell, the spheres adjust the tension and position of the lenses above. Experimentally, he casts a small burst of Flames against one of the orbs. Looking to the ceiling, he notes the subtle change in focus, the fuzzing of the edges of the stars above. He tries Frostbite next, watching the same lens tighten.

It's slow going, working by trial and adjustment. Sometimes, Onmund applies too much heat. His command of frost is more precise. He can't help but be annoyed that Sparks does nothing. 

Decimius leaves them to it, returning to the Oculory floor, his eyes turned up to the stars. He offers commentary on how exactly Onmund should calibrate the lenses. Onmund tries to block out the chatter. He's not interested in Decimius’ help.

Rufus sits on the floor, his back against the side of the podium. Onmund has no plans of disturbing him. He should snatch what rest he can. Focusing on the puzzle, Onmund becomes engrossed in working the orbs, fine tuning the position of the glass spheres above their heads.

It is obvious when the pattern is right. A map of upper Tamriel illuminating in the place of stars. Below them, Decimius shouts, “I knew it would work!” Ignoring entirely that it is Onmund who found the solution. 

Leaving Rufus against the podium, Onmund heads down the ramp. He doesn't notice Rufus is joining him until his hand brushes against the small of Onmund’s back.

“You could have rested.”

“You're bad at talking to people,” Rufus says matter of factly. Onmund can't argue with that.

They learn the Staff of Magnus is likely in Labyrinthian, but are only able to extract this information out of Decimius after he hurls a number of accusations regarding the College at them both.

Rufus does the best he can to soothe Decimius’ suspicions. “We are only apprentices, trying to prove ourselves…”

Once Decimius’ paranoia fades, he agrees that Rufus and Onmund may spend the night in the makeshift camp in the hallway they passed on the way to the Oculory. There is enough space for five men, and now he is only one. Rufus thanks him, tugging at Onmund's sleeve so they can leave. Decimius has more observations to make, now that the Oculory is fully functioning.

There are sleeping rolls in the hall, as well as provisions. They should eat before they sleep, but Rufus is already rearranging the rolls so there are two side by side. He drops down onto one of them, only trying to tug off his armor once he no longer has to support his own weight.

Onmund takes a wedge of hard cheese from the gathered provisions, and a jar of what looks like preserved beets. “Eat something, please,” he passes the food to Rufus.

Rufus doesn't fight him, biting into the wedge of cheese first. “Labyrinthian is not close.”

“No,” Onmund responds, “we can take a wagon to Morthal, travel on foot from there?” He chews on his bit of dried meat. He's not sure the animal of origin.

Clearly fading, Rufus nods.

They crawl into their bedrolls. Onmund wonders if it is too forward to kiss Rufus before he fades into sleep. But Rufus is out before Onmund can decide one way or another.

\--

Rufus is still sleeping soundly when Onmund wakes, a restlessness in his bones. He doesn't know how to pinpoint it.

Climbing out of his sleeping roll, he heads towards the door. Onmund is careful to prop the door open, so he can get back inside.

The door opens up onto a balcony, carved into the mountainside. From exploring the ruins, Onmund is all turned around. He did not realize how high up they were.

Vertigo hits him like a mallet. But not from the height. It is a vision, cutting across his line of sight. 

A member of the Psijic Order, in unmistakable yellow robes greets him, “Onmund, yes? Not the Dragonborn. I am Neiren. We have been trying to contact you.”

Onmund has nothing to say, but he is willing to listen.

“You must return to the College immediately. We believe you can overcome this adversity. But you must go, quickly!”

“What is happening?” he questions.

And as soon as he appears to Onmund, he is gone.

Onmund expects to be free of the vision, to see the ruins of Mzulft spread out before him. But when he opens his eyes, he sees nothing but darkness.

He is no longer standing, his hands and feet bound. He lays in the back of a wagon, a coarse sack over his head. When he tries to scream, he has no voice. When he struggles, he realizes there is a board over top of the wagon cart, keeping him pinned down.

Still, he tries to kick against the board. Smashing his feet against it over and over, he can feel the wood start to splinter. The cart stops and he can hear chatter outside.

“He's awake.”

“Try to talk sense to him.”

“I knew this was a bad idea, we should have just spoken to him in the first place. He's a Nord for Talos’ sake.”

“I thought the Dragonborn was a Nord too?”

“No, he's an Imperial, I think? Or a Breton? He's thin and dark. Rolfo or something. Rena?”

The cover is pulled off the wagon and two sets of hands reach inside to pull Onmund up. They remove the sack first and the daylight is so bright as to be blinding. Onmund coughs several times, his voice coming back.

“What the fuck?”

When he looks up, he sees his captors. Two men and a woman in Stormcloak Blue.

“We’re taking you to Windhelm to see Jarl Ulfric.”

“What?” Onmund barks.

“He has a proposition for you,” the woman smiles, giving him two thumbs up.

\--

Outnumbered, Onmund has no choice but to accompany the party to Windhelm.

The woman’s name is Mare. The men are Vash and Hector. Once Onmund agrees not to run, they unbind him and let him sit up in the back of the wagon. While Vash steers the cart, Mare and Hector sit in the rear with Onmund. They make idle chatter, interested to hear about the Dragonborn.

Onmund tries his best not to give much away, choosing to ask them about themselves, if they are so keen to talk. But the conversation always circles back around.

“I joined up as soon as the Jarl was freed. You know, the dragon at Helgen made his escape possible. Talos chose him,” Hector explains.

Mare interjects, “But he's not the Dragonborn! Rolfo is, right?” She turns her blue eyes to Onmund. 

He doesn't bother correcting her on Rufus’ name. “That's what they say.”

“But you've seen him shout? Right?” She leans forward, crowding into Onmund’s space. “Seen him speak with the Dragon’s tongue?”

“Not really,” he hopes his lie isn't caught.

Hector butts in, “All the stories say he barely uses it. Trying to prove his worth on his own merits, not by the Voice alone.”

“It sounds as if you know as much about him as I do…” Onmund says.

Hector shakes his head. His blond hair is cropped short to his skull. “Not really. No one knows much about him.”

“That's why the Jarl wants to speak to you! Ever since we got reports about the Dragonborn traveling with a Son of Skyrim,” Mare interjects.

“He's thought maybe you can sway his decision.”

Mare takes over again, “You know, talk some sense into him. I mean, he's the Dragonborn. Dovahkiin,” she's slow and precise with her punctuation. “He's supposed to bring glory to Skyrim. Not tear her apart.”

“You understand, right?”

Onmund only nods. Talos, how was kidnapping him considered a sound decision? How did they expect him to react?

“Is he an Imperial or a Breton?” Vash asks from the front of the carriage. “I have coin on the answer.” Vash is a bit older than the other two, gray creeping into his otherwise fiery red hair and beard.

“What makes you think he's not a Nord?” Onmund questions. If they really know so little, why give anything more away.?

“He has black hair, right?” Mare pesters.

Onmund scoffs, “So do I.”

“Yours is really more of a dark brown,” Hector objects. “But my grandpa on my mom’s side was an Imperial. And we saw him, right? When you two went into the ruins. He's definitely an Imperial,” he says with a sure finality. 

“But they're from the Mage College? I think he's just a tall Breton.”

“Maybe he's an Orc who is very skilled at Illusion,” Onmund suggests.

“Now you're just fucking with us!” Mare screeches.


	5. Chapter 5

Upon reaching the Palace of the Kings, Onmund is greeted with a change of clothes and an offer of a bath. Looking down at himself, he realizes he is a disaster, his Mage robes torn, his hands marred by scrapes and Dwarven oil. He can only imagine the state of his face and hair. He took at least one blow directly to the face. When he sticks his tongue against his cheek, he can still feel the bruise. 

He follows the housecarl up the winding stairs to a series of bedrooms. Her blonde hair is pulled back tightly in two intertwining braids. If anything, she seems resigned to her fate of playing hostess.

She shows him to a room that has been set aside for his use while in Windhelm. Jarl Ulfric has asked he not leave the Palace until after they speak tomorrow. But Onmund is not a prisoner here. He is a guest. 

At this point he's so exhausted and disoriented, he can't help but laugh.

The housecarl glares at him, saying sharply that a servant will deliver hot water presently. First thing in the morning, the Jarl will see him.

Once she leaves the room, Onmund considers rolling around in the clean sheets to dirty them out of spite. As if he were a spoiled child. But in the end, he is the only one who will be bothered by the filth, so he waits for the water, careful not to touch anything.

The room is modest, stone walls and a window with soldered glass. Looking out, he can see the Palace’s courtyard, though it is difficult to make out much of anything in the dark. The bed is finely appointed, but not ostentatious, with several thick furs to use as blankets. 

A gentle knock at the door announces the servant’s arrival. She nudges open the door with her foot. Human, with dark eyes and hair, she moves with a quiet composure, despite being weighed down with two buckets of water.

“I can get that,” Onmund says, taking the buckets from her. He empties them into the tub, so she may return them without having to make a second trip.

Curtly, she says that was unnecessary, snatching the buckets back. Onmund, of all people, isn't going to fault her for her displeasure. He doesn't want to be here either. 

She slams the door hard enough to wake the dead. Onmund can't help but smile.

Pulling of his robes, Onmund hurries into the water before it starts to turn cold. He scrubs his skin until it looks raw-red, peeling away the dirt, sweat, and blood. Without wasting time, he scrubs his hair with the lye soap, working strands between his fingers to rub away the grime.

The water turns murky, gritty with debris and he doesn't dally, stepping out of the tub before he loses more progress than he's gained. He doesn't exactly want to be clean for meeting with Jarl Ulfric, but he doesn't mind being clean in a general sense. He’ll just have to find another way to protest his treatment.

You don’t fucking kidnap supposed guests. Saying he is not a prisoner does not change the fact he is here against his will.

This time the servant woman does not knock, opening the door wide with one hand, a fresh bucket in the other. Onmund barely has time to cover his groin before she stomps in. “To rinse,” she declares. “I will clean the tub in the morning. I'm going to bed.”

The second time she slams the door is less triumphant. Onmund is just grateful he managed to preserve some of his modesty. Some.

After rinsing he pulls on borrowed clothing, just enough to keep him covered through the night. Once in bed, he stares at the ceiling, trying to find anything to keep his mind from racing. If he does not sleep, he cannot think. And he needs to find a way to get out of here, or help Rufus find him. 

Does Rufus know anything about tracking? Will he know what signs to look for? 

Onmund’s mind drifts to increasingly dire scenarios. Rufus waking up, alone and cold, not knowing where to start his search. Heading in the wrong direction, because Onmund was snatched from the balcony, would there even be a trail? What if Rufus thinks that Onmund left of his own free will?

Perhaps Rufus is not searching for him at all, already enroute to Labyrinthian.

But he’ll have to come to Windhelm first, to take a wagon to Morthal. The distance is too far to travel alone on foot.

And what of the vision? The blasted vision. What is wrong at the College? Certainly something in regards to the Eye. If the Psijic Order had not selected that exact moment to ensnare Onmund, could he have prevented his capture?

He eventually falls to sleep, though it is restless, haunted with possibilities.

\--

When he wakes, Onmund finds fresh clothes laid out for him, draped across the chair at the other side of the room. He hadn't heard anyone come in. Perhaps they were there last night and he didn't notice.

Picking up the tunic and breeches, he recoils when he finds them to be Stormcloak blue. He’d rather wear his damaged robes. 

Onmund could have sworn he'd tossed his robes on the floor last night, but he searches the room and cannot find them anywhere. Fuck. 

He considers meeting with the Jarl in a nightshirt and smallclothes and nothing else. And maybe, if he were a bolder man, he'd actually go through with it. March down to the throne room in bare feet and his ass hanging out. But he has to admit he is not that man. He pulls on the breeches, tucking the nightshirt into the waistband. He won't wear the blue tunic. He won't.

The housecarl from last night is waiting for him outside the door. She presents him with a new pair of boots to wear. He tugs them on, knowing full well they could only know his proper size by stealing the pair he wore to Windhelm.

He still can't remember her name, not that it matters. He just has to follow her down to meet with the Jarl. He can't help but feel the spiral staircase leads to certain doom.

She shows him to the War Room, where Jarl Ulfric and one of his advisors stand over a table with a map of Skyrim spread beneath their hands. None of the little brass markers are in place, instead tucked over to one side.

The advisor is a huge man, with hands like dinner plates and a bear head atop his skull. He hunches over the war table, giving Onmund an appreciative nod when he enters. The man eyeing him up and down makes Onmund feel like a piece of meat on the butcher’s block.

Jarl Ulfric stands at attention, hands clasped behind his back. His fur-lined coat grazes the floor. 

He is somewhat different in person than Onmund expected. Shorter, but still broad, with more fine lines around his eyes and a softness to his thin lips. “Onmund Rain-Stead?”

Onmund winces at his name. At the College, no one uses it. “Yes.”

“I presume your journey here was agreeable?”

He can do little but stare in wide-eyed shock, “I was kidnapped in the night…”

“My soldiers said they found you in a daze,” the Jarl explains.

“They bound me, hand and foot and put a sack over my head.” 

“A precaution, should you react poorly.”

Why did Jarl Ulfric even ask about his treatment, if he knew already he would not like Onmund’s answer?

There is no use answering, but Onmund cannot keep quiet. “So, what? I was just supposed to keep calm when I woke, tied up in the back of a strange wagon?”

Jarl Ulfric frowns, but offers no explanation. Instead he introduces the bear-head man, “This is Galmar Stone-Fist, my second in command and leader of my armies. And we have much to discuss.”

“I'm just a student,” Onmund blurts, trying to grasp onto anything. If Rufus has to come through Windhelm on his way to Labyrinthian, maybe there is still time. The wagons might not yet have departed. Maybe, if he knows nothing, they will let him go. “At the College of Winterhold, I'm just a student there. It's all I want to be. Just let me go back.”

The Jarl frowns, “Let us be direct. You have been seen in the company of the Dragonborn. At Whiterun and then again entering the ruins at Mzulft.” He shakes his head, “Our attempts to contact him directly have been unsuccessful.

Onmund laughs, because this conversation is becoming hilariously familiar. Whatever barriers Rufus tries to erect, those bent on using him try Onmund as an alternative to access. 

“Why are you laughing?” Stone-Fist grunts.

“What else can I do? I am at your mercy, expected to turn over the Dragonborn, when I barely know him. I cannot help you.”

“Do not lie to me, boy,” Jarl Ulfric warns.

And in a moment of panic and frustration, Onmund wonders what the Jarl’s expression would be if he truly told them everything he knows about Rufus. About how he walks silently, how he's proud he can cast Magelight, even if his other spells are rubbish, how cleanly he can kill, without hesitation or regret, and how achingly precious he looks when he smiles. The way his lips part when Onmund fucks into him.

“I do not know what you want of me.” Onmund tries. That, at least, is the truth.

“It is imperative that the Dragonborn join us in our fight against the Empire. For reasons of morale, we cannot have him choose the other side.” Jarl Ulfric sneers, “If he is afraid to fight-”

“No,” Onmund interjects, though his hands start to shake, “He will not. I know he will not.”

“Then you must convince him. Where do your loyalties lie, boy?” Stone-Fist questions.

Onmund shakes his head, “I did not want this war…” They will make him articulate a position. They will force the words down his throat, make him swallow them, like briar thorns. An no matter how many times his vomits, he will not be free of their taste. It is humiliating. 

“None of us want war,” the Jarl says, “But this is a necessary one.”

“To whom are you loyal?” Stone-Fist demands.

He will not give them the satisfaction of his frustration.

He does not know. He does not know where his loyalties lie. He has never known. Not because he does not care, but because neither option is to his satisfaction. Because he has a deep sense of dread neither outcome wins him security, or happiness, or love. Onmund has always been a selfish man. He does not change, just because he picks a side.

“I care little of politics,” he lies.

Jarl Ulfric knows he is lying. “We have alerted your family of your intention to join the Stormcloaks,” he says with finality. “We should have their response soon.”

Death would be preferable.

\--

Onmund half expects to be tossed onto the battlefield directly, an axe in his hands. But of course, that is not Jarl Ulfric’s intention. What the Jarl expects to come of this, Onmund still does not know. How is his manipulation supposed to convince Onmund to help them in ensnaring Rufus? Besides, what they ask cannot be done. Even if Onmund believed, wholeheartedly, that Jarl Ulfric should be High King, that Skyrim belongs to the Nords alone, that they should tear the Empire in two, he could not convince Rufus to believe the same.

Instead of being sent to war, Onmund is confined to his room. Of course, no one says “confined.” Stone-Fist walks him up the stairs, shows him to the door, and tells him they will call upon him for the next meal. An opportunity to further discuss how to bring the Dragonborn into the Stormcloaks.

“You should just beat me until I agree instead,” Onmund hisses. He feels a little bolder in front of Stone-Fist when the Jarl is not present. “It would be as effective.”

Stone-Fist wraps his hand around the back of Onmund’s neck, squeezing down ever so slightly, just below Onmund’s hairline. “That would be my preference as well,” he growls, pushing Onmund into the room and closing the door.

He's so fucked.

Onmund paces the room, end to end, trying to weigh his options. What if he did walk out of the Palace? Everyone has said he is not a prisoner. They have insisted on it. Could he just leave? He has to try. Doing nothing is cowardly.

He reaches for the door.

He should not be so surprised to find it locked. ‘Not a prisoner’ his ass. In frustration, he throws Sparks against the wood. They bounce off, harmlessly, but give him an idea.

This time, he draws Flames in his hand instead. Looking around the room, he grabs the sturdiest object he can find, a iron for stoking the small hearth. He lets the fire in his hand build, growing hotter, if not larger. Normally, he barely feels the heat of his own spells. It is his Magicka summoning the Flame after all, it cannot turn against him. But he lets the fire reach such an intensity that he begins to sweat. Only able to focus on one attribute at a time, he must keep the ball of heat small to raise its temperature.

Once satisfied, he strikes the Flame against the door handle, holding it there until his Magicka depletes. When he pulls his hand away, the iron is red-hot.

He switches to the fire iron, smashing it noisily against the lock. Again, and again, and again. At first, bits break off from the combination of heat and force. But the more time elapses, the harder Onmund must strike to make any difference. Finally, he concedes that the iron has hardened.

He tries the handle again, finds it still stuck closed. Fuck. He has made no appreciable progress. Or made the situation worse. Perhaps now they will not be able to get inside to fetch him. So, that's something.

Onmund is shocked no one has come to check on him, given the racket he has made.

Defeated, for the time being, Onmund sits on the floor, his back against the wall and eyes on the door, waiting for his Magicka to replenish.

\--

At lunchtime, someone tries the door. They must be unable to fit the key into the massacred lock, and they walk back down the hall. When they return, there are two sets of footsteps. They try the key again, with no better luck.

A fist pounds on the door, Stone-Fist bellowing, “What have you done, boy?”

Onmund rests his head back against the wall behind him. “Figure it out yourself.”

“When your father arrives, I'll beat him for not having beat you enough.”

Onmund freezes. Surely, his father is not actually coming to Windhelm. They are only trying to scare him into submission. 

It doesn't matter, there is nothing that Onmund can do to help with the door. If he could get it open, he would have already done so.

One set of footsteps walks away, back to the stairwell. Onmund can't tell if it's Stone-Fist who stayed, but he suspects it is the other person, since the insults stop. 

Fifteen minutes later, two more people approach the door. He hears the rattling of tools. A saw and a hammer, perhaps. They are going to break the door down to get to him.

It doesn't happen immediately, the door is too heavy to yield easily. So Onmund can only wait for his demise. He figures he better be standing when the door finally comes down, but there's time yet as they hack away. He only wishes he were clever enough to say this was his plan all along.

When it seems imminent that the door is finally breached, Onmund pushes himself to his feet. He considers Chain Lightning. How many of them could he take down at once? He’ll never make it out of the Palace, but at least he can fight.

Once the door comes open, a Dunmer craftsman sticks his head inside. “They all went to midday meal,” he says. “Don't suppose you're hungry though?”

Slightly bewildered, Onmund’s rage fades, “Not particularly.”

The Housecarl, whose name Onmund still can't remember, sticks her head in as well, over top of the Dunmer’s, “I'm supposed to escort you.”

“And if I refuse?” Onmund questions.

She shrugs her shoulders, “I guess I carry you downstairs?”

She's not as tall as Onmund, not even close, but she's strong, with thick arms and calloused hands. Onmund doesn't doubt for a moment that she really could carry him down to the Great Hall like a sack of potatoes. So he has to choose between embarrassment and swallowing his pride.

He could choose death, still. Strike out at her, or maybe the dark elf. The elf he might be able to maim, before the housecarl overwhelmed him.

But maybe Rufus is searching for him. It's been less than two days since he was taken. And maybe dying is giving up. “Fine, I'm coming.”

Upon reaching the Great Hall, the housecarl leaves him in his seat. Jarl Ulfric sits at the head of the table, Stone-Fist to his right. The servants are busy clearing the other place settings. Whoever the other people were at the meal are already long gone.

“What did you do to the door?” the Jarl questions.

At least they are being direct with each other. “I was locked inside. I tried to melt the tumbler with magic. I failed.”

“The door will have to be replaced. Would you really rather the dungeons?” Jarl Ulfric does not pause, “I wanted to avoid that. I truly believed you were a Son of Skyrim.”

Onmund has zero interest in his food. “Why would you think a thing like that?”

“I know of your father. He joined. I presume after you left home.”

Onmund raises his eyebrows, “He’s too old to fight.” His father is well into his forties.

“An army needs more than just soldiers.”

Staring into his plate, Onmund tries to figure out something at least a little clever to say. “I am not my father.”

“That much is clear.” Jarl Ulfric sits back in his chair, “eat.”

Onmund has no desire, “I've already told you. I cannot convince him.”

“Then tell me why he is so set against us. If you cannot sway him, I will find another way. But you can help me. We know so little.”

“Everything he has told me are lies,” as far as Onmund knows, this is the truth.

“He gives the name ‘Rufus Cloelius,’ am I right?” Jarl Ulfric asks.

Keeping his eyes down, Onmund knows he is being tested. He tries to fix his expression, as to give nothing away.

“He is from Cyrodiil City, and from his accent, this bit about him may well be true. He is tall, slim, and wears his hair long. Swarthy, compared to most Imperials, though not excessively so. He has been seen using both daggers and a bow. These are things we know.”

“So, about as much as I do, then.” Onmund does not look up. These are all things the Jarl may know from his brief encounter with Rufus at Helgen, nothing more.

“They say, there are no secrets between lovers.”

“We’re not,” it's not that he's ashamed. Only, he does not want to give the Jarl an inch. Not on this, not on anything.

\--

That evening, he's moved to another room, given that his former accommodations no longer have a door. These quarters are largely the same as the last, with fresh clothing folded and ready on the chair. This time there is no undershirt. Just smalls, breeches, and the Stormcloak tunic.

Onmund crawls into bed, stares at the ceiling, and wonders if any of the servants would be sympathetic to his plight. Perhaps he can find an ally among them. But asking the wrong person would be a great folly.

Turning from his back to his stomach, Onmund tries to devise a new plan. The window is just large enough, he could slip through the slit and jump down to the courtyard. Only problem is, he'd break both his legs in the fall. He's not certain he has enough Magicka reserves to mend them. Even with the magic at hand, the pain would be excruciating and his concentration a mess. He would be lucky to summon a single spell.

His thoughts are still crashing when he feels a weight at the side of the bed, the mattress compressing slightly. Someone is in his room.

Jerking suddenly, he braces himself to attack. But in seeing only eyes, no face, he knows who it is.

Rufus tugs down his mask, letting it hang around his neck, “Onmund.”

“Rufus,” Onmund sits up, throwing his arms around Rufus’ waist and pulling him close. 

Rufus doesn't move, his arms still at his sides. “What are you doing here?” His voice breaks. “Why did you leave me?”

Onmund draws back, shaking his head. “It was not my choice. I was taken from Mzulft.” He remembers the vision, “The Psijic Order...something is wrong at the College.”

“People saw you...with the Stormcloaks,” Rufus whispers, “sitting with them, talking, in the back of the wagon.” He looks about the room, then back at Onmund, “You have quarters, and uniforms, and you are unhurt,” every statement is an accusation.

Shaking his head, Onmund tries to explain, “They have been treating me kindly, in their own way. They wanted me...to try and convince you to join the rebellion. They want to use me to get to you. But I assure you, I did not leave you. They took me while I was having a vision.”

“Is that what you want?” Rufus questions, “do you want me to join the rebellion?”

Onmund narrows his eyes, studying Rufus’ features. “You would never.”

“Do you want?” Rufus repeats, this time squeezing down on Onmund’s hand.

“No, Rufus,” he tells the truth, “I don’t want you to do anything.”

Rufus’ shoulders relax. “In the morning, I’ll speak to Ulfric. And then we will leave.”

“Why bother,” Onmund runs his hand down Rufus’ side. “We could leave now.”

Rufus laughs, “Can you survive the fall from the window? That is how I got in. Besides, they will just hunt me again. Hunt you again. I must settle this.” He starts to fidget with the buckles on his armor, pulling open his tunic. “Or at least try.”

Once undressed, Rufus slides into the bed next to Onmund. “It’s cold.”

It’s not, but Onmund indulges him, wrapping his arm around his waist and holding him close. Sleep comes easy now. Though the next morning will be no less treacherous the last. 

\--

Onmund wakes when Rufus does, rolling from the mattress to atop Onmund’s hips, his legs spread either side. Rufus smiles down at him, hair falling in front of his face. “Good morning.”

Onmund scoffs, “Better when we are out of here.”

“Right,” Rufus concedes. But he does not climb off of Onmund’s lap, focussed entirely on kissing him senseless, winding his tongue into Onmund’s mouth and keeping him pinned against the sheets with his hands over Onumnd’s wrists.

He can feel how hard Rufus is as he grinds against him. Taking one of Onmund’s hands, he brings his fingers to his lips. “I missed you,” Rufus says quite sweetly, going from kissing Onmund’s fingertips to putting two in his mouth at a time and sucking. He bites down playfully at the pad of Onmund’s index finger before removing them entirely from his mouth.

But Rufus does not leave Onmund’s hand well alone. Pressing his tongue flat to Onmund’s palm, he licks a long, wet stripe down the center. “Touch me, please?”

Feeling dizzy-hot with affection, Onmund nods the best he can, pushing Rufus’ smalls just far enough from his hips for his cock to spring free.

Rufus messes with Onmund’s smalls as well, pulling loose his cock and lining them up together. “Like this? Can you hold both at once?” Rufus asks.

Onmund tries to wrap his hand around both of their cocks at once. It’s awkward, and he’s not sure it will be any better for Rufus, or himself. But Rufus stares at him with such amazement as he starts to stroke them together, maybe there’s something better than raw sensation.

“Oh, Onmund, oh…” Rufus plants his hands on Onmund’s chest, playing with the chain around his neck, skimming over his ribs, thumbing over his nipples, he’s never still.

The door swings open and the noise startles Onmund, but not Rufus. He’d planned this! Wanting to get caught in the act. 

Rufus whips his head around, growling, “We’re busy. Tell your Jarl I am here and leave us.”

Against the mattress, Onmund cannot even see who it was. But the door slams quickly.

Onmund hesitates, embarrassed that they were seen in such a state. Oddly jealous that anyone would see Rufus so vulnerable, even if the interloper would have seen very little other than Rufus’ bare shoulders and back.

“You meant for that to happen!” Onmund accuses. 

“Perhaps,” he smiles. “When I thought you had left me…”

For all his frustration, Onmund is too frustratingly close to stop. While Rufus talks, he resumes stroking, trying to twist his hand to make them slide against each other. He likes it, in an abstract way, being so intimately pressed together. Rufus’ skin against his.

“I worried you had fallen in love with a Nord, that I would find them in your bed. That your cock would be in them, when I crawled through the window.”

“We were apart for three days,” Onmund replies. 

“Perhaps someone you knew when you were young. One of your past, ah,” Rufus screws his eyes shut. He must be close, the way his voice falters, “lovers. Now that you had already conquered me.”

The idea is terrifying. That Rufus would think so poorly of him. So poorly of himself. “I won’t leave you.”

Rufus spills first, warm and quick against Onmund’s chest. His arms shudder as he swallows his moans. As talkative as he just was, he’s near silent as he finishes. Watching the flush spread over Rufus’ cheeks, the way he tries to catch his breath, is enough to tip Onmund as well, their cum mixing together on the plane of his stomach. 

\--

Jarl Ulfric waits for them in the War Room. Stone-Fist stands to his right. Even though he must have been informed of Rufus’ arrival at the Palace of the Kings, he still appears somewhat unnerved to see Rufus in the flesh.

Rufus has dressed unassumingly, in leather trousers and a cotton tunic. Onmund, still refusing to wear the Stormcloak uniform, has been forced into one of Rufus’ shirts, the only one that would somewhat fit, though it constricts Onmund’s arms in its too-slim sleeves and pulls tightly across his chest.

“You wished to speak to me, and now I am here,” Rufus states plainly.

Stone-Fist laughs, “My Jarl, you did not tell me the Dovahkiin was a child!”

Rufus smiles at him, “Makes my accomplishments all the greater, doesn’t it?” The easy nature of the comeback puts Stone-Fist on the back foot. “And I understand that your vision may not be so very good, but I do look a touch young for my age.”

Jarl Ulfric ignores their sparring, moving to his objective. “So, we have made our offer for you to formally join the sons and daughters of Skyrim in fighting for our freedom, to take back what is ours.”

Without his smile fading, Rufus cuts with his tongue, “Why would I do that?”

“It is your destiny, as Dovahkiin, you must know this. I am the rightful High King of Skyrim, and you will serve as my Sword..”

“I am a foreigner, as far as you are concerned. But, I see you as my brother, Ulfric. Because we share an Emperor.”

Jarl Ulfric sneers, but says nothing.

“I do not even hold a sword for myself. For my Empire. What makes you think I would hold it for you? What did you hope to accomplish by capturing my friend? By dragging me here by extension? Did it never occur to you I have far more important matters than your petty little rebellion?”

“The Rebellion is the only thing that matters. It is why the Dragons have come.”

Rufus laughs, “Who told you that?” He flashes his teeth, “When you were a boy, you spoke to the Graybeards, yes? They taught you to shout, with painstaking practice. Because you were their chosen child. But now,” Rufus tilts his head, “I speak to the Dovah as if it were my own tongue. So, who has the right to decide the fate of Skyrim?” He looks to Stone-Fist, “Think of that, next time you wish to call me a child as an insult.

“I assume we may take our leave? Unless you would like another, ‘honorable duel?’” Rufus challenges.

“I cannot convince you, and I cannot kill you,” the Jarl looks unfazed, “So I suppose you will depart.”

Rufus nods his head, “Jarl.”

Onmund follows Rufus out. They are unaccosted on their way to the door. Neither of them speak until they are outside. Snowflakes fall steadily from the sky, but the sun is high and bright.

Rufus pulls him down the street, into an empty alley. Putting his head back against the stone, Rufus breathes deeply, trying to calm his nerves. Once he has caught his breath, he looks at Onmund, smiling, “Not bad?”

Onmund shakes his head, “Very impressive.”

Rufus grins. 

“Rufus,” this is not the time to ask, but there is never going to be a proper time. “Is ‘Rufus’ really your name?”

Frowning, he replies, “What did they tell you?”

“Nothing, they know nothing, and I gave them nothing….but….”

“Because you think you know nothing of me? No truths?”

Onmund nods.

“My given name is Rufus, what I told you of my parents’ fate is true, my patronymic is a lie.” He takes hold of both of Onmund’s hands in his own. “When no one can hear, I will tell you. I promise.” He kisses Onmund’s lips.

\--

Onmund expects to be waiting a long time before Rufus gives his real patronymic. It’s not even terribly important. His anxiety stemmed more from the name he calls Rufus in private than the particularities of his family. The idea of whispering a false-name between the sheets makes him uneasy. But Rufus is still Rufus and that is a relief.

They are along the road to Winterhold, returning to the College to investigate the warning the Psijic Order brought to Onmund, when Rufus speaks.

“Tullius.”

“What?” Onmund questions. They have been quiet for some time, only Onmund’s footfall to keep them company.

“My patronymic, it is Tullius.”

Onmund stops walking, his feet rooted in place. Rufus takes several steps more. He does not turn around when he continues speaking, still facing towards Winterhold.

“The General is my uncle. But he does not recognize me,” still, Rufus does not turn to face Onmund. “Or, at least, he did not recognize me at Helgen. It has been six years since my parents died. And he had not seen me for two years prior to that. He only knew me as a child.”

Onmund says nothing.

“No one can know.”

Rufus is right.

Onmund should not know this.

\--

Brelyna meets them at the gates to the College, her robes trailing behind her as she runs. “Where have you been?”

“What is going on?” Rufus questions. Before entering Winterhold, he changed from his leathers into Mage robes. Onmund had purchased a new set of robes before leaving Windhelm, and although they are simple, they are better than nothing.

“We’re not sure, The Arch-Mage is inside the Hall of Elements with Ancano. It must be something with the Eye.”

Rufus breaks into a run, leaving Onmund and Brelyna behind. Onmund darts after him, but Rufus is quicker, reaching the doors first. There is barely enough time for Onmund to slip in behind him.

Aren and Ervine stand before a Magicked barrier, shooting sharp, powerful spells at the shimmering green wall. While the barrier is still intact, it is obvious that they have been making progress in disarming Ancano’s advanced Ward.

Onmund quickly summons a Lightning spell as well, tossing it at the barrier. Every little bit helps. Rufus can do nothing until the wall comes down. 

“Arch-Mage,” Rufus says.

“Not now,” Aren snaps, “We must get to Ancano. We do not know what he is doing, but I assure you, I will have his head for this.”

Rufus seals his lips and waits. 

Inside the Hall, Ancano does not so much as acknowledge their existence. He is utterly transfixed on the Eye. 

The barrier falls, Aren rushes in first, followed closely by Ervine. Onmund does not try to get in ahead of him. He does grab Rufus’ shoulder, keeping him from overtaking the professors. Rufus’ hand is already on the hilt of one of his blades, still tucked underneath his robes.

“Stop!” Aren shouts, “I command you.”

Ancano remains unmoved, not even speaking to them. His hands are raised towards the Eye, funneling his own magic back into the orb in a steady stream of electricity. 

Aren raises his hands, Frost gathering between them.

Rufus’ eyes go wide, he is about to shout. Whether it be with his voice, or the Dragon’s, Onmund does not know.

Then, white.

Nothing.

He had not expected white.

“Are you alright?” Onmund recognizes the voice as Ervine’s

Lifting his head from the stone floor, Onmund touches his face. He is bleeding from his forehead. Ervine sits slumped in the archway, her arm wrapped around her waist. 

Beyond her is the Eye, or what used to be the Eye. The relatively solid, if glowing, orb has been subsumed in blue-green waves, whipping furiously around the Hall. He can no longer see Ancano. 

Rufus, where is Rufus?

“Can you walk?” Ervine draws his attention back. He does not see the Arch-Mage either. 

“What is Ancano doing with the Eye?” Onmund questions.

She shakes her head, “You must find Savos. I have not seen him since the explosion.”

“Are you alright?” Onmund asks. While he pushes himself to his feet, Ervine stays against the arch. 

“I’m fine, I need to catch my breath. Find the Arch-Mage, he must have been blown clear. He may be injured.”

Onmund confirms first that neither the Arch-Mage nor Rufus are inside the Hall. When he walks, there is a sharp pain in his leg. It is not broken, but it is not well either. He tries to blanket the pain with a quick healing spell, but he finds his Magicka completely dry. 

He stumbles outside, trying to ignore the pain. In the courtyard, several Mages are gathered around, some crouching on the ground. 

Tolfdir comes to meet him, “What has happened?”

“Ancano...the Eye…” Onmund has no more explanation than that. 

“By the Nine,” Tolfdir curses, “Is he responsible for this? The Arch-Mage, dead.”

Onmund’s eyes widen, “The Arch-Mage is dead?” He looks to the other Mages gathered around, only realizing now that they surround a prone body. Tolfdir nods.

“Rufus?” Onmund asks, “Where is Rufus?” his pitch rises.

“I’m here!” Rufus calls from behind the crowd. Onmund could not see him, surrounded by the others and seated on the ground. 

The front of Rufus’ robes are wet with dark blood. The first thing he does upon seeing Onmund is wave off his concern. “Marence already healed me. I’m fine.”

“I’m afraid there is more,” Tolfdir interrupts, “Whatever Ancano did has caused chaos in Winterhold. I fear the villagers will not be able to defend themselves. You must help restore order. I will go speak with Mirabelle. Something must be done about Ancano.”

“Shit,” Rufus curses as Tolfdir walks away.

“You, stay,” Onmund tells Rufus. He is in no shape to fight.

“No chance,” Rufus complains, pushing himself to his feet. “Let me get changed. Fuck this farce.” He looks at Brelyna and J’Zargo, “I’m not a Mage.”

Deadpan, J’Zargo replies, “J’Zargo knows.”

“Not just because I’m shit,” Rufus explains, “I had no intention of ever learning. I knew nothing of magic when I came. Just, now you’ve been warned.” He runs his hand down Onmund’s arm, “Give me two minutes.”

Rufus disappears into the Hall of Attainment with his bag.

“You knew?” Brelyna asks.

“Of course I knew. It’s why we spent so much time together. We were trying to hide it from the professors.”

Onmund feels his Magicka returning, and is finally able to cast a healing spell against his injured leg.

“J’Zargo thought you were trying to hide something else.”

Rufus returns, dressed in his leathers and with his blades on his hips, bow on his back. He has not bothered with his mask, there is no need. Whatever happens down in the village below, the Mages are sure to draw more attention than he could conjure. 

“So what you’re saying,” Brelyna comments upon Rufus’ return, “Is you are good at something?”

“Very good,” Rufus clips.

Onmund leads the makeshift party down towards the village. They do not even make it halfway across the bridge before they are assaulted. Anomalies of elemental magic swarm around their heads, shocking, burning, and freezing at their exposed skin. 

The quick moving anomalies are difficult to pinpoint, but J’Zargo and Brelyna take down three in quick succession between them. Onmund fells a forth. The group runs ahead, desperate to get to the town before people are hurt. 

The streets are overrun with the bright-white balls of disruption. They swoop in towards the townsfolk, who have little means of battling them back. A shopkeeper shouts as one curls around his arm.

“We have to get them away from the townspeople,” Onmund reasons. “And then we can blast them with magic.”

“I have an idea,” Rufus says, “Where do you want them?”

Onmund points towards the low hillside, opposite the tavern, “Draw them there, and we will kill them.”

Rufus nods, darting away from the group. He has only one of his smaller throwing knives in one hand.

Reaching the shopkeeper, Rufus cuts the blade against the anomaly, forcing it to break its grip on the man’s arm. The light shudders, aiming at Rufus instead.

Impossibly quick, Rufus skips away, knife still drawn. He nicks another three anomalies with his blade on the way to the rendezvous point. The anomalies chase him, gaining on him with every step.

If they are attacking Rufus, the Mages won’t be able to unleash their spells. All he’ll achieve is tanking the magic instead of the townspeople. And that’s no solution at all.

Onmund shouts, “Rufus! Ward!”

It is one of the few spells that Rufus can half manage. It may not be very effective at all. But Onmund is well aware of Rufus’ limitations. It may give them just enough time. 

Once Rufus reaches the designated spot, he throws up his Ward. It is weak, ineffective, but it is enough of a disruption to keep the anomalies from swarming him. The second that the Ward holds is enough for Onmund, J’Zargo, and Brelyna to cast in a quick burst, dropping all four at once.

Rufus runs again, scooping up the attention of another set of anomalies. 

“Do you have the Magicka?” Onmund calls. Ward is more draining for Rufus than it should be. 

“I will!” Rufus replies, swiping at a fifth anomaly for the current bouquet. 

“He’s enthusiastic,” Brelyna comments, “I’ll give him that.”

“Rufus is also taking all the risk, so we do not. J’Zargo is not opposed.”

Onmund knows this. He feels guilty that Rufus must again put himself in danger. But the Mages are too slow, they would be overwhelmed in his position.

Another coordinated blast and the anomalies blink out of existence, leaving only ash behind on the surface of the snow, already muddied from Rufus’ frantic running. He is breathing heavily, sweat trickling down the side of his face. “Is that all of them?”

Brelyna speaks up, “Most, if not all.”

“You and J’Zargo check the perimeter of the town. I’ll check in on the residents. Make sure there aren’t any inside.”

The other apprentices do not argue, sticking together for safety while they patrol. Even if a few anomalies remain, they should be easy to deal with, now that the bulk are down.

Rufus trots along beside Onmund, silent now and closed-lipped.

“I’m sorry,” Onmund whispers.

“Why? It worked beautifully.”

“You could have been hurt.”

“Story of my life.”

Before they enter the tavern, Onmund asks Rufus where it hurts. He has enough Magicka back to heal him. 

“Here,” Rufus puts his hand over his stomach. The same place he was bleeding through his robes earlier. “I think it tore while I was running.”

Onmund saves his breath. Admonishing Rufus will accomplish nothing. The leather is dark, so Onmund could not see, but when he puts his hand against Rufus’ stomach, he can feel that it is wet with blood again.

“Careless,” Onmund doesn’t know if he’s chiding Rufus, or himself. If Colette’s spell could not hold, there is no way Onmund’s will. But he can at least stem the bleeding until Rufus can lie down and heal properly. 

“Actions are only careless when other options exist,” Rufus argues.

\--

It will be another day or two before they may depart of Labyrinthian. They must wait for Rufus’ injury to knit.

Ervine has provided them with two items, passed to her from the Arch-Mage before his death. A torc and an amulet. She leaves both in Onmund’s hands while Rufus sleeps.

There is little need now to pretend otherwise, so, Onmund waits in Rufus’ dormitory, falling asleep in his chair. When Rufus wakes, groggy in the middle of the night, he demands Onmund come to bed, lifting the blankets so he can slide in. 

Rufus stays in bed for the remainder of the day while Onmund makes preparations. The trip West South will take days. While the situation with Ancano is grave, there is nothing to be done about the distance between their objective and the College.

He packs food, clothing, and potions, tucking them into two bags. Putting the heavier items in his own pack, he hopes that Rufus does not notice their uneven distribution.

That evening, he sleeps by Rufus’ side again. Colette has been by to perform another round of healing spells, hoping this time the seal on Rufus’ wound keeps tight. Their sleep schedules are broken beyond repair and again Rufus wakes in the middle of the night. Only this time, he is already wrapped around Onmund, his head tucked against Onmund’s shoulder.

“I must go to Dawnstar first,” Rufus whispers. “Then we will travel on to Morthal.”

“Rufus?”

“Please do not ask me why. It cannot wait.”

Onmund kisses into Rufus’ hair. “You cannot trust me with this?”

“I trust you with everything,” Rufus’ fingers are tangled in the amulet chain around Onmund’s neck. “But you cannot know this.”

\--

Rufus leaves Onmund at the harbor, watching the single boat at port in Dawnstar.

“I will be back, I promise,” he says, before walking away.

Onmund does not watch him leave, keeping his eyes on the water. He waits twenty minutes, maybe more, before heading to the inn.

He orders ale and settles into one corner to read, trying to pass the time. Trying not to question Rufus’ motives. The diversion is hardly any time at all, given that Dawnstar stands between the College an Morthal. And Onmund is well aware how Rufus’ attention is always divided, many hands pulling at his back. What worries Onmund is that he has been told to stay away. That this is something Rufus must do alone.

It is time for supper when Rufus arrives. He is in good spirits, saying they may take the next wagon bound for Morthal. Everything should be settled for now. 

At least he looks well. At least one of his many obligations has been lifted from his shoulders. Though while they eat, Rufus has a moment where his mouth twists, he puts his hand to his forehead, and pushes his food away. The fit lasts no more than twenty seconds, before he smiles again.

“Rufus?”

“I am looking forward to Morthal. I’m so tired of the snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit 9/15 I fucked up Skyrim's geography


	6. Chapter 6

When the wagon reaches Morthal, they resolve to head right onto Labyrinthian. They've received no messages from the College. Onmund does not know if to interpret silence as good or ill.

Rufus wants to stop only briefly in the inn, to make sure there was no courier who beat them here. He also purchases rations to replace those they consumed on the trip West.

They feel it before they hear it. A rumbling in the air, metal mugs rattling on wooden tavern tables. The walls can only do so much to muffle the roar. The sound fills every inch it can occupy, expanding out like a cresting wave.

Onmund has heard dragons before, somewhere out over the sea on Winterhold. But never so close, never burying him in reverberations.

But Rufus, Rufus has been all but in the dragon’s maw. So while the tavern patrons panic all around him, Rufus sighs, his hand going for the bow at his back, checking to make sure it is secure. 

He does not speak a word to Onmund, does not ask for his help. Leaving his bag in the tavern, he affixes two potion vials to his belt before slipping out. Wordlessly, Onmund follows him.

They stand together on the porch of the tavern, shaded slightly from the oppressive sun. Above them, the dragon circles, casting its shadow over Morthal. 

“You don't have to do this,” Rufus says, still staring at the sky.

The guardspeople fire arrows at the beast above. The shots that refuse to stick to the dragon’s tough hide fall back towards the earth. Hapless guards have to dodge them on their way back down, all while trying to land another blow. They can do little but chip slowly away at dragon, hope to weaken it, bit by bit.

“I said I'm not leaving you,” Onmund repeats. He'll say it as many times as Rufus needs to hear it.

Swooping closer to the rooftops, the dragon breathes ice along the thatch. At least it is not fire. Flames would overtake the entire town, leaving nothing behind but stone flutes and smoldering ash. Small mercies.

“If you can strike it with lightning, do so. Do not use flames, the town,” Rufus instructs.

“Everything is wood and thatch.”

Rufus nods, “But, do not put yourself at risk. It is not worth it. I will bring the dragon to ground outside of the town.”

Darting away, Rufus runs to the next house over, launching himself onto one of the wooden beams. He pulls himself up to the first floor windowsill, before hopping to grab hold of the roof. Hoisting himself onto the rooftop, he runs across the structural beam before leaping to the next building over.

There's no use in trying to follow Rufus’ form as it disappears behind coarse stone chimneys and cuts closer to the dragon.

Onmund runs along the ground to find a better position, but the way the dragon circles, there are few options that give him a sure shot.

Ducking behind a row of barrels, Onmund conjures lightning in his hand. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to shift the shape from a sphere to something narrower, something sharp. He thinks of his parent’s plow, slicing into freshly thawed dirt, rucking up the last remnants of winter ice. He thinks of fine-edged butcher knives. Of Rufus, slitting the Caller’s throat.

When Onmund turns and throws his bolt, it pierces the air, traveling further into the sky than he thought possible. It explodes into a wave of sparks when it hits the dragon’s hide. Though it is not much, he knows he inflicts more damage that the guards’ arrows. So, he prepares to strike again.

Overhead he can hear a great voice, deeper, louder than Rufus is capable. But of course it is his shout, speaking with the Dovah’s tongue. Onmund recognizes it, despite its strangeness. And not only because he heard it once at Saarthal. He recognizes it because it is Rufus’, despite the strange language, despite the modulation that should be impossible from his thin throat.

With the guard’s yelling and the boom of battle, Onmund cannot make out the words Rufus uses. Perhaps he would not understand, even if the enunciation were clear to him. But Rufus shouts and the dragon turns.

Though he still cannot see Rufus, Onmund can see the dragon, who stops circling, instead cutting a straight path out of Morthal and towards the open fields just outside the town. Rufus has snagged its attention and tries to draw it away from the civilians and their tinderbox homes.

Onmund leaves his cover, running toward the road. He is not alone, some of the uninjured guardspeople choose to defend their home.

The dragon cants toward the ground, dipping sharply outside the gates. When its talons hit the earth, the ground beneath their feet rumbles. Onmund does not slow his run.

Rufus looks so, so tiny in comparison, standing in front of the beast, his bow exchanged for daggers. The dragon faces him, head on, nostrils flaring as it cranes its massive head.

Rufus yells something else, a taunt, in his own voice. Onmund is still too far away to hear what he says. The dragon lifts its head, seemingly satisfied in having found its prey. Opening its mouth, words and frost tumble forth, spewing in Rufus’ direction.

Rolling to one side, Rufus avoids the ice blast and vanishes from Onmund’s sight. 

Onmund raises his hand, thrusting fire, this time, not having to worry about setting people’s homes aflame. The burn cuts deep, charring away part of the dragon’s flesh. While the dragon cares little of the swarm of guardspeople’s arrows, Onmund’s spell is enough to draw its focus.

But as soon as the dragon turns to face Onmund, it shrieks and recoils. Thrashing, its wings spread wide, but it stays grounded. 

Onmund can see it now, long, deep slices along its belly. Thick, red blood bubbles from the twinned wounds. Rufus stand beneath the dragon, readying his blades for another strike.

He stabs again, this time with a single blade, his other dagger falling against the ground. Rufus throws all of his weight into the strike, forcing the blade deep into the dragon’s innards. He cries out himself from the force of it, dragon’s blood raining on his face. Once the dagger is impaled to the hilt, he twists it sharply, the dragon screaming.

Falling.

Dying.

The dragon’s weight falls atop Rufus, still positioned underneath.

This time it is Onmund screaming, running towards the dragon’s corpse. The beast is silent. The guardspeople, silent. Waiting to see what has become of the Dragonborn.

Onmund reaches the pile of flesh and bone. Rufus would have been crushed under the weight. But already the dragon’s body is transforming, scales and sinew giving way to ash and smoke. Flakes of skin burn up as they fly away, leaving bleached-white bones behind.

As if rising from the dead, Rufus shoots bolt upright, emerging from the dragon’s ribcage. He takes a staggered breath, his mouth gaping open as he swallows. But it is not air he sucks down. A rush of white wind spirals from the dragon’s remains, choking Rufus with each labored gasp.

Onmund can do nothing but stand and watch.

Once it is over, Rufus falls to his hands and knees, surrounded by dragon’s bones. Onmund is still unsure if it is safe to approach him, but he can wait no longer.

In his left hand he starts Healing. With his right, he touches Rufus’ shoulder. “Where does it hurt?”

Rufus turns his dark eyes up to meet Onmund’s, his mouth still slightly open. When Rufus speaks, it is with the truth Onmund has known all along.

“Everywhere.”

But Onmund cannot fix that. Even were he an expert in Restoration, he cannot soothe Rufus’ pain. Not like this. Not at all.

Sitting back on his heals, Rufus takes Onmund’s left hand, pressing it against his sternum, “Cast it here, please.”

Onmund cannot deny him, thinking of early summer fields of lavender and the way Rufus’ stomach dips in as he breathes, he presses the spell against Rufus’ chest, the glow seeping out from between his splayed fingers.

“People are staring,” Rufus comments, trying to push himself to his feet.

Indeed, in addition to the guardspeople, Morthal’s residents have gathered round the bones, staring with wide eyes at Rufus.

“You're him!” A Bosmer woman exclaims, “the Dragonborn!”

Rufus smiles brightly, a mask, nothing more, one he takes up and puts down as easily as the one he wears around his neck. “I am.”

They won't be able to start for Labyrinthian today. Rufus is unsteady on his feet and the throng of people push towards him, wanting to touch the fabled Dragonborn, wanting to hear of his adventures and perils. What is it like, at the Throat of the World? Can he really understand when dragons speak?

“They are woefully ignorant of political discourse. And their taste in wine is appalling,” Rufus jokes.

Shuffled back toward the tavern. Rufus and Onmund have little choice in where they are led. Every man and woman of drinking age wants Rufus to sit with them. They all wish to pay for his ale.

Onmund feels the crowd trying to pull them apart. But it is not by any intention, just the waves of bodies wish to get ever closer to Rufus, to siphon off his magics. 

But Rufus won’t let go of Onmund’s hand, even when they are pulled apart, their fingers stay laced together. Once there is an inch to move, Rufus jerks Onmund forward, so they stand side by side.

They at least get to sit next to one another at the table. A mug of ale plopped in front of Rufus almost immediately. He passes the first mug off to Onmund and not a minute later, a fresh drink is at his fingertips.

Rufus tells the tavern the story of the first dragon he faced. The one at Whiterun, from whom he stole his first word, like a precocious child, gobbling up half-cooked porridge from the simmering pot.

Onmund does not know how much of the story is true, how much of it near-believable fiction. But under the table, Rufus squeezes his hand.

It is not until deep evening they are able to shrug off the last of them, begging off to bed. They are offered the best room the inn has to offer. Rufus does not fight the invitation to rest.

His smile does not fall off until Onmund shuts the door behind them.

“I'm very drunk,” Rufus explains.

Onmund hadn't noticed. He’s warm and a little tipsy himself, but not excessively so.

“You should drink some water,” Onmund takes his water skin from his pack, passing it to Rufus.

Rufus takes two long gulps, wiping his mouth against his sleeve before tripping towards the bed. Though he’d wiped down his bloody face and armor earlier, he still shouldn’t wear his leathers to bed. Onmund grabs him by his shoulder, flipping him onto his back so he can work the buckles loose.

Curling his hands around Onmund’s arms, Rufus’ eyes flutter open. They’re lazy and unfocused with drink. How did Onmund not notice earlier? 

“You’re too good for me,” Rufus whispers, his legs wrapping around Onmund’s hips. “I’ll ruin you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Onmund tries to be as efficient as possible in undressing Rufus, not lingering too long against his skin, not playing with his hair or ghosting his mouth over the hollow of Rufus’ throat. As much as he would like.

Rufus doesn’t fight him when Onmund unwraps his legs to pull his trousers off. Once Rufus is bare, Onmund arranges him in bed. He should sleep on his side, in case he falls ill in the night. 

Reaching out blindly, Rufus tries to grab hold of Onmund as he steps away to shed his robes. “I’m still here,” Onmund assures.

“Okay,” Rufus’ eyes are shut. “Okay.”

Onmund climbs into bed with Rufus, putting his chest to Rufus’ back to keep him on his side during the night. He keeps his hand splayed over Rufus’ flat stomach, feeling as he breathes.

He can’t help but kiss the back of Rufus’ neck, where his long hair falls away. Certain that Rufus is asleep, Onmund is shocked to hear him speak.

“The way the Graybeards made it sound...this should be a gift. I’m the child of legend. They’ve waited so long for me to come. The dragons have returned to Skyrim, and so have I. Their blood is in me. Has always been in me.”

Rufus pauses before continuing. 

“Why does it hurt? It hurts every time. I could find no mention of the pain. I read of Saint Alessia, Reman, Tiber Septim. I found no reference to the pain.”

“Rufus?”

“Every time. It is every time. Their souls enter me, and I am in pain.”

There is nothing for Onmund to say. Rufus is the only one who may slay the dragons. 

Actions are only careless when other options exist.

Skyrim has no other options. Only Rufus.

“I wish it really were Ulfric Stormcloak and not me,” Rufus laughs softly. “He deserves this, to know this suffering, if he truly thinks this gift should be his. But then, maybe I deserve it too.”

“You don’t,” Onmund says. 

“I have killed more people than I have years. I will kill more before I die. Not all of them deserve it.”

“It was not your choice.”

“No, but that does not absolve me from my guilt.” Rufus puts his own hand over Onmund’s on his stomach. “After we recover the Staff, and deal with Ancano, I will not return to the College.” He laces their fingers together, his thinner ones threading through Onmund’s. “I was selfish, to want you. And I’m sorry.”

“Rufus...we will always be friends.”

Rufus moves his hand off of Onmund’s.

“I’m glad.”

\--

In the morning, they finally set off from Morthal to Labyrinthian. It takes them the better part of the day to reach the ruins. 

The exterior complex is massive, with staircases leading in all directions up through the hillside. Though Onmund can see the door ahead, it is entirely unclear what route will be most direct. They take one set of stairs to the next platform, then the next. At least they seem to be making appreciable progress in reaching the door. But Onmund honestly cannot understand ancient architecture. He supposes maybe it is meant to look grand, imposing, but the seemingly endless turns do nothing but frustrate him. 

The stonework is well-worn, but still in good condition, better than most ruins Onmund has encountered. Still, he has an impending sense that one of the pillars may fall and crush him at any moment. It’s a hard feeling to shake, that the world is crumbling all around him. 

Ascending the final set of stairs, Onmund and Rufus pause. Up ahead are ghostly figures, translucent white and blue ephemera, but standing on the stones as solidly as any man or mer. Onmund recognizes the ghostly form of Aren immediately. How easy it is to forget that the Arch-Mage died. That was only a handful of days ago, but it feels like only hours sometimes, then like years. 

“Come on, we’re already here, let us not waste any more time,” Aren says. He does not acknowledge his former students, speaking instead to the other apparitions. 

The ghosts speak to one another, questioning if this is really a task they should undertake. Throwing jabs back and forth, they bicker quite like the apprentices do now, and Onmund realizes this is a repetition of an event long passed.

“Don’t forget, this whole idea was Atmah’s to begin with.”

Neither Onmund nor Rufus dare to interrupt, waiting until the ghostly figures finish their conversation and move on, phasing through the still-closed door. Only once they have vanished do the two step forward and finish ascending the stairs.

“What was that?” Rufus questions. “You saw it too?”

“Yes,” Onmund confirms.

Rufus looks relieved that at least someone has shared this particular vision. “Alright, there is probably a reason we saw it. But there’s no use trying to figure it out now.” 

They step towards the door, Onmund reaching into his pack to grab the torc. The iron ring fits neatly into the recesses on the grand, circular door, clicking into place. Rufus does not bother with his mask, leaving it around his neck. But he will certainly want to enter Labyrinthian first. Neither are well equipped for soaking surprise attacks, but Rufus’ reflexes are faster.

The massive door slides open, with little intervention from either of them, rolling away to allow them inside.

Before them, the room appears empty, other than a few scattered bones. Once inside, the door begins to slide shut behind them and the apparitions reappear at the center of the room, still oblivious to the living.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” one of the women speaks.

“Can you imagine their faces when we return?” Aren ignores her trepidation.

Another man speaks his mind, “You keep speaking like you’re sure we’ll find something useful here.”

They talk amongst themselves, arguing back and forth about how far they’re willing to go to earn the respect of the College’s professors. There is surely magic here. Their expedition will not be in vain. 

The ghosts dissolve, leaving Onmund and Rufus alone again. Rufus pulls his mask up over his face and draws both blades, “Be ready.”

Passing through the archway at the end of the vaulted atrium, they enter a long, narrow tunnel. Rufus walks ahead, Onmund several steps behind. He keeps a burst of Sparks ready, should they encounter any hostile creatures. 

At the end of the corridor, Rufus throws the lever to enter through the iron gate up ahead. There has been no sign of danger and the ghosts have stayed away. 

Rufus passes through the gate, Onmund close on his heels. Once they are both through, the gate shuts behind them with a crash. Rufus winces at the noise.

The racket has woken something inside the chamber. Something old and powerful. Bones spread out across the surface of the floor rattle against the stone, skidding of their own will towards the center of the circular room. 

Onmund looks at the ceiling. It is high. Whatever was contained here could be massive. As the bones start knitting together without tendons and flesh to hold them, Onmund realizes what this is.

The skeletal dragon bashes its head against the ground, unsteady at first on its feet. With another lunge, it pulls up. It roars. Crawling forward on its feet and wings, the dragon stalks towards them. Without webbed skin to catch the wind, the dragon is flightless, but no less terrifying for it. 

Rufus says nothing, skirting to one side to get into position. 

Onmund takes the opposite route, only to be confronted with more skeletons, rising from their makeshift graves. He throws wave after wave of Sparks, taking them back to the ground. 

Rufus is silent as he works the dragon, jamming his daggers in between junctions of bone on bone until the construction falls apart in a heap. Each time a bone hits the ground, the earth rumbles, strange magics spilling forth. 

Rufus’ body is still tense, even after he has picked apart the bones, just as scattered as when they entered the room. 

They wait a moment more in silence before Rufus puts his hand to his forehead. “Thank Stendarr.”

Onmund realizes the dragon had no soul. They can continue on.

As they weave their way through the ruins, they see glimpses of what happened to the Mages. How they fell to the magics inside Labyrinthian, greater than anything they could have anticipated. And now, Rufus and Onmund are expected to complete their task alone. 

A voice speaks to them from the darkened halls, draining Onmund’s Magicka each time it whispers. He can feel the strange words wrapping around his limbs like constricting vines. But just as soon as he is drained, the sensation fades, his Magicka returning in a slow thudding stream.

“What are they saying?” Onmund asks.

“I cannot make out every word,” Rufus admits, “But they are threats. We should not be here.”

Onmund nods. “Do you feel...strangely, when they speak?”

Rufus shakes his head, “What is wrong?”

“They are draining my Magicka.”

Snickering, Rufus says, “Perhaps I am too inept to worry about.”

They have to wait for Onmund’s magic to return before he can cast Flames against the frozen door that blocks their way forward. Once the barrier is down, an ephemeral guardian lunges at them, a solid sword made seemingly of nothing it its grip.

They must fight on.

\--

The voice has a name, Morokei. And a title, Dragon Priest. He was left here long ago. Labyrinthian is still his kingdom, he refuses to abdicate.

Morokei shifts from the Dragon’s tongue to Common, taunting them as they approach, sending his spirit thralls to slow them. But Onmund and Rufus push forward, moving as quickly as they can before Onmund is drained again.

The process of being stripped of his Magicka is more annoying than anything. He does not like the sensation of being touched by unseen hands, but he will survive it.

The final time they see Savos Aren’s ghost, they learn only three of the Mages remained to face the Dragon Priest. Aren, Atmah, and Hafnar. Onmund has never heard of the other two Mages at the College. Not once. 

Beyond the next door, Morokei waits for them. Rufus enters first, remaining silent as Onmund creeps in behind. They stay close to the wall, trying to conceal their presence. Onmund now understands what happened to the other Mages in Aren’s party.

Unmoving, ethereal in form, Atmah and Hafnar stand guard, their hands raised toward Morokei, keeping him locked in place, but still alive. The spectral Mages hold him imprisoned in a sphere of light. In his hands Morokei holds the Staff of Magnus. 

“We will have to destroy the Mages first,” Rufus whispers. No doubt, Morokei can still hear them. “We have to free him to retrieve the Staff.”

Onmund agrees. But if Aren and the others could only imprison Morokei, what chance do Rufus and he stand at defeating him?

But Aren was only an apprentice then, Onmund reasons. Onmund is an apprentice now. Rufus, not an apprentice at all. But they must do this.

There is no other option.

“I will slay the Mages as quickly as possible, then we focus on Morokei.”

Onmund nods.

Rufus pulls his mask up, slipping away. Onmund keeps his eyes on Morokei, waiting for his chance to strike. Even Rufus cannot take down both Mages at once, so Onmund waits for the first to fall. 

One of the ghosts flickers out, the beam of light from their hands fading. The aura around Morokei shudders, but does not yet disappear. He strikes against the inside of his prison, certain of what is to come. Onmund sees a crash of lightning inside the sphere. He readies Frost in his hand.

The second beam fades. Onmund blasts his Frost spell towards Morokei before he is even certain the barrier comes down.

The aura breaks just as Onmund’s ice reaches Morokei, shattering against his chestpiece. The Priest staggers back, before lunging forward, throwing Lightning in Onmund’s direction.

Onmund is not quick enough to dodge, Chain Lightning crawling over his skin, he falls to the ground, waiting for the aftershocks to fade. He cannot move until the spell runs its course. Morokei floats from his platform, breezing towards Onmund, but before he can strike again, an arrow pierces Morokei’s back. Then a second in quick succession. 

“You are so weak, Mage. Unskilled.”

Morokei reaches back, trying to dislodge the arrows from his gnarled flesh. But another hits, and another. He turns from Onmund, looking for the source.

His Magicka replenished, Onmund readies Frost again, hoping to slow Morokei in finding Rufus’ position. He lashes out at Morokei’s back, casting a sheen of ice along his armor.

Morokei must still think Rufus the greater threat, paying little attention to Onmund now. But Onmund is careful to stay in position, to slow Morokei when he can.

Approaching one of the towers, where a Mage once stood guard, Morokei singlemindedly searches for Rufus. 

From the shadows, Rufus shouts, using his full voice. The power of it knocks Onmund back as well, though he has kept his distance from Morokei. Morokei falters, halting his approach.

Rufus launches himself from the tower, crashing into Morokei’s floating form and tumbling to the ground. They drop twenty feet to the floor, a crash of breaking bones.

In a panic, Onmund looks for a way down from the platform. Finding the staircase, he rushes down to the chamber floor. Rufus is on top of Morokei, dragging one of his daggers across the priest's throat. 

Morokei is motionless below Rufus. But Rufus cuts again, splitting him from neck to abdomen. His blade is not quite sharp enough to make the slice cleanly, and he has to saw through Morokei’s ribcage to make the incision.

Onmund has to look away. He grabs the Staff of Magnus from the ground, waiting for Rufus to finish his grim task.

“We need to move,” Rufus says.

“He is dead?”

“Yes.” But there is no blood. “This way.”

Onmund walks at Rufus’ side as they search for an exit from the chamber. He wishes he had something to say. But Rufus seems to like the silence. And it is so, so quiet. All Onmund manages is to brush his fingers against Rufus’, a little sign of affection, despite their weariness.

Finding a passage out, Rufus goes to open the door into the next room, but before he can push, the door swings open, a Altmer in Thalmor robes sneering down at them.

“You made it out alive?” the Altmer questions, “Ancano was right, you are dangerous. I’ll be taking that Staff off your hands,” he says with an unfamiliar cockiness. “Ancano wants it safe. And he wants you dead. Nothing personal.” 

Onmund doesn’t hesitate. Not taking the time to conjure, he hits the Thalmor at the waist, tackling him to the ground and blotting out the spell the Mer had been preparing. Grabbing the agent by the front of his robes, Onmund pulls his head up off the stone, before smashing it back down. 

The Thalmor growls, freeing his arms and reaching for Onmund’s throat. But before his fingers reach Onmund’s flesh, Rufus kicks the Mer in the head, knocking him unconscious. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Rufus winces, taking his blade to the Thalmor’s throat. 

“Do what?”

“Get off of him before I do this.”

Onmund stands, stepping away from the Thalmor’s prone body. Rufus slits his throat cleanly, holding his ungloved hand over his mouth to make sure he stops breathing. “Kill people. It is one thing, the spirits, and skeletons, and beasts. But let me be the one to shoulder this.” he wipes his blade clean. “Unless you are alone, and they target you. I will be the one to do this.”

Onmund does not argue with Rufus. While in the moment, he had been angry enough to attack the Thalmor, yes, murder him, he cannot help the relief he feels, not being the one to feel his last breath against his skin.

\--

“I must go to Solitude.” Rufus states, as they return to Morthal to inquire about carriages. “I have an obligation that I cannot ignore.”

Onmund hesitates. They must get back to the College, but he does not wish to be parted from Rufus. “Let me go with you.” He is certain he will be denied.

“The College?”

“How long will this obligation take?”

Rufus thinks on it, “The reception is in two days time, at the Thalmor Embassy. I may return to the College immediately after.”

“Then let me go with you. I am not equipped to return to the College alone. We will face the Eye together. Please,” Onmund asks.

Rufus chews at his bottom lip, “Alright, let us go.”

\--

“So if you are infiltrating the Embassy,” Onmund asks, “what am I doing?”

Rufus smiles, “Looking good? Not as if that will be difficult for you.”

Onmund rolls his eyes. 

They are at the Winking Skeever, waiting for Rufus’ contact. A Bosmer man, short and lithe, waves at Rufus from across the room. Rufus takes his glass of wine with him to meet the man.

“Malborn?”

The Bosmer nods, ushering them inside one of the tavern’s unoccupied rooms. “You may stay here tonight, Delphine has booked the room under a false name.” Given the size of the room, this ‘Delphine’ was not expecting Rufus to bring a guest. “Now, give me what you need to get inside the embassy.”

Rufus hands over his daggers, lockpick set, two potions, and his mask.

“That is all?” Malborn confirms.

“If I need anything else, I’ll be too fucked over for it to matter.”

“And your friend?” Malborn turns to Onmund.

“He’ll be staying at the reception.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Malborn continues, “These are for you,” he hands over a package wrapped in paper and twine. ”You’ll have to figure out a distraction, but I’ll make sure your equipment is ready for you in the kitchens. May the Eight protect you.”

With that, Malborn slips back out of the room. Rufus touches his wine glass to his lips before returning to the parcel.

Inside the package is a set of fine clothes for Rufus to wear to the reception. Beautifully dyed and finely stitched, Rufus won’t look the least out of place tomorrow. “In the morning we’ll go shopping, find something for you to wear.” Picking up a sheet of parchment tucked in the package, Rufus reads silently, “The invitation already says I may bring a guest.”

Onmund runs his fingers over the tunic, draped across the bed, deep green with bronze-thread accents, “Are you going to try it on?”

Rufus grins, taking another gulp of wine. “Are you going to ruin it if I do?”

His cheeks warming, Onmund tries to deflect, “To make sure it fits.” That is what he meant.

Pulling his tunic up over his head, Rufus puts on a show. Despite the dangers they faced at Labyrinthian, Rufus’ chest is largely unmarred from battle. Onmund took his time healing what few blows Rufus did take. His Restoration skills are getting better, despite his initial hesitancy with the school.

“I guess I should put on the trousers too?” Rufus comments, unlacing his boots, dropping his breeches to the floor and stepping out of them. He stands before Onmund in only his smalls, staring back, knowing full well what he’s doing. 

Onmund hands Rufus the trousers first. He rakes his eyes over Rufus’ body, but does not touch. The trousers are deep brown, almost black, and cut somewhat looser than Rufus’ preference towards form-fitting clothing. 

“Delphine has no sense of style,” Rufus says.

“Should I be worried about her?” Onmund jokes.

Rufus laughs, snatching up the tunic from the bed and pulling it over his head. It clings nicely to his narrow shoulders, opening slightly at the neck, so Rufus’ clavicles are visible on either side. 

“What do you think?” Rufus asks, cocking his head to one side. “Suitable for a diplomatic mission?”

“You’re the diplomat,” Onmund respond wryly. 

“I am!” Rufus grabs at the front of Onmund’s tunic, “We will have to get you something just as fine.” He kisses along Onmund’s jaw, nipping his teeth at the bone.

“No one will be looking at me.”

“You underestimate yourself,” Rufus’ hands snake into the back of Onmund’s waistband. “We have to go shopping tomorrow in any case…” he lets the suggestion hang in the air. “Have I not made my desire clear enough?”

Onmund pushes Rufus into the bed. It is terribly small, but they can make it work. He doesn’t ruin Rufus’ attire, but he does pull him back out of the trousers he just put on, taking his smalls away in one motion. Pushing Rufus’ legs apart, Onmund takes his half-hard cock past his lips, sucking and stroking until he is fully erect. 

Rufus claws at the sheets first, then Onmund’s shoulders, trying to find purchase wherever he can grab hold. Onmund takes him to the root, hollowing his cheeks and swallowing while Rufus thrashes and writhes. Pleas of, “don’t stop, don’t stop, so good. Please,” ringing in Onmund’s ears. 

As before, Rufus’ body goes still and quiet in the moment he reaches orgasm, spilling down Onmund’s throat. His hands relax, falling to his side. As Onmund pulls back, Rufus’ legs stay open.

“Fuck me, please,” Rufus whispers. His soft cock lays flat against the fabric of his tunic. “Onmund…”

“Alright, okay,” Onmund can’t say no. He doesn’t want to say no. Only, he feels somehow that this is still improper. There’s been no time to find a Disciple of Mara. But maybe, tomorrow while they are shopping, Onmund can find an amulet. The capital is huge. Someone must have an amulet for sale.”Turn over,” Onmund swallows.

Rufus rolls from his back onto his stomach, coming up on all fours. “The vials are in my pack.”

Leaning over the side of the bed, Onmund drags the whole bag into his lap, searching the inside pockets for the more empty of the two oil vials before tossing the pack back onto the floor. 

Slicking his fingers, he prepares Rufus quickly, his own cock already hard in anticipation. He still has to get out of his fucking breeches. Rufus makes little panting noises as Onmund stretches him.

He has to stand up to shuck his clothes, dropping his breeches and pulling off his tunic. Rufus still has his dress tunic on, riding up his back as he waits on all fours. He looks particularly obscene. 

Climbing back into bed, Onmund presses the head of his cock to Rufus’ hole, sliding in with one slow but continuous motion. Rufus drops his shoulders closer to the mattress, mumbling about how good Onmund feels. 

Part of Onmund wishes he could see Rufus’ face like this, the way his skin flushes as he’s fucked. But there’s something so strikingly beautiful about taking him like this. How well their bodies fit into one another, how the green of Rufus’ tunic brings out the olive of his skin. 

Onmund wraps his hands around Rufus’ narrow waist, pulling him back onto his cock as he fucks into him. Rufus is tight and warm and alive around his cock, squeezing down as Onmund increases his pace, trying to make Rufus spend again, if he can manage it. 

Rufus doesn’t get hard a second time, but he repeats Onmund’s name so many times it starts to lose meaning, until the significance picks up again, dovetailing into affection. No one else has ever seen Rufus like this. No one else has even had the chance. 

Onmund can’t help the way his hands clench down as he comes, emptying into Rufus and squeezing tightly on his waist. The come down, the crash, is too much. He’s exhausted, he’s alive. 

They roll around in bed until they are both comfortable, pulling off Rufus’ tunic in the process. It's sweaty, but they haven't ruined it. Facing one another, Rufus still tries to sneak kisses anywhere but Onmund’s mouth. Without really thinking about what he’s doing, Onmund slips his hand between Rufus’ legs, running his finger around his stretched rim before dipping the pad of his finger inside. Rufus is wet with his cum. 

Talos. 

\--

They arrive at the reception, ‘fashionably late,’ as Rufus puts it. Onmund values promptness, but he concedes that Rufus knows better than he.

Other than having Onmund fitted for a tunic, the day in Solitude was blessedly quiet. Though not a single shop they passed stocked an Amulet of Mara. Onmund started running out of excuses to slip back into stores to ask out of Rufus’ earshot. 

They’d settled on blue for Onmund, with similar dark-colored trousers. “It brings out your eyes,” Rufus observes, as they’re lead into the reception hall.

“They’re nothing special,” Onmund counters. 

Rufus takes them to the bar, ordering wine for himself and ale for Onmund. “They’re quite striking really. One of the first things I noticed about you.”

Onmund is only flattered a tiny bit. Blue eyes are common among Nords. Rufus only likes them because, to him, they are unusual. 

“It’s true!” Rufus exclaims, “when I saw you the first time, it was in the Hall of Attainment, when we were being issued our quarters and robes. You paid little attention to me, but I thought you were so handsome then.”

“You left the College after that.” Rufus had disappeared for weeks.

Smiling, Rufus argues, “I needed time to recover after seeing you.”

Onmund almost asks him if such transparent flattery has worked for Rufus before, but he knows full well it hasn’t, so he bites his tongue. 

The event makes Onmund slightly dizzy. The Jarls of each hold, exclusive of Jarl Ulfric, are in attendance, sipping their drinks and plucking little meat pies off of silver serving dishes. Onmund feels utterly out of his element here. 

Those guests he does not recognize are also well mannered and finely dressed, introducing themselves to Rufus as men and women of particular note. Merchants and diplomats and large landowners. Onmund only wishes he could melt into the baseboards and disappear. 

“And who is this?” the man speaking to Rufus asks, gesturing to Onmund. His voice is slurred with liquor, but he smiles brightly, swaying a bit on his feet.

“Onmund, of the College of Winterhold,” Rufus makes introductions.

“I’m a friend of Rufus’,” Onmund mumbles. 

Rufus stares at him for a moment, frowning, before looking away. Onmund is not sure how he messed this up, but he’s certain he has.

“And this is Razelan, of the Redguard East Empire Trading Company,” Rufus finishes, “We’ve known each other for some time now.”

Onmund reaches out to shake Razelan’s hand. At least that much he’s gotten right. He thinks. Razelan is reluctant to let go, keeping his hand firmly in Onmund’s.

“So, how about that distraction, eh?” Rufus smiles at Razelan. 

“You know me, I'm a specialist in such matters,” Razelan laughs. “It's time to make this party a bit more interesting, in any case.” He reaches up to shove at Rufus’ shoulder before walking to the center of the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Razelan exclaims, raising up his glass, “I propose a toast.”

Already the guests gossip amongst themselves, finding Razelan’s drunken behavior quite scandalous.

“Enjoy the party,” Rufus whispers. He brushes his fingers against the back of Onmund’s hand before slipping off toward the bar.

“Of course, I mean figuratively! I can't imagine anything less likely than someone actually wanting to share Elenwen’s bed!” Razelan barks with laughter.

Onmund watches as Rufus disappears into the back room. There is nothing he can do now but wait.

Once Razelan is removed from the reception, Onmund finds himself painfully alone. He knows no one here, is no one here. Everyone who was eager to speak with Rufus look away when they realize Onmund is now alone.

He takes his ale and sits in one corner of the room, trying to distract himself. No one speaks to him, no one intervenes, and Onmund likes that just fine.

Onmund watches as the prominent men and women of Skyrim drink, eat, and converse. They keep their volume appropriate and their gestures small, polite smiles on their lips. But they cannot be oblivious to the turmoil of the province. This is merely a game they must all play, because the Thalmor demand it of them.

A Dunmer servant approaches Elenwen, coming up on her toes to whisper in her ear. Elenwen excuses herself from conversation, bustling into the back rooms. Onmund takes this as his cue to leave. Rufus would only let the Thalmor know he has been present when in the process of leaving.

Onmund has no goodbyes to offer. He is only left with the feeling he very much does not belong among the elite.

And he never will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably one more chapter? I think just one more and I can wrap this up.


	7. Chapter 7

They must stop in Dawnstar. Rufus offers copious apologies, promising that he will take no more than an hour before they may continue on to Winterhold.

Onmund cannot deny him. 

He asks if he may accompany Rufus, if his task is so brief.

“This cannot touch you,” Rufus says. “Never.”

Onmund sits in the tavern, the Staff of Magnus strapped to his back, and waits for Rufus to return.

Rufus takes less than half the time he estimated, rushing back into the tavern and slamming the door behind him. His eyes are glassy, wet, and red. “There is a wagon leaving now, the driver is waiting for us.”

Following Rufus out, Onmund is left with so many unanswered questions. He chokes them down, one by one, so when he looks at Rufus again, he can force a smile.

Rufus smiles back.

\--

They can see it before they hear it. They can hear it before they understand. When they understand, they run.

Rufus overtakes Onmund easily, sprinting towards the College. Onmund trails behind, cold air catching in his lungs, making it hard to breathe as they ascend the path to the College.

The students and instructors are gathered together, speaking quickly back and forth, just at the edge of the blue-green aura, bloated to engulf the College grounds.

Tolfdir calls out to them, “Onmund! Rufus! You've returned.”

“What happened?” Rufus asks.

Onmund catches up, skidding to a stop in front of Tolfdir. On his back, the Staff of Magnus reacts, the crystal orb at the Staff’s head illuminating brightly.

“Fuck,” Onmund pulls the Staff from his back, holding it in both hands and making sure nothing else strange happens. Talos, something strange is always happening.

“Ancano has done something to the Eye. Its influence won't stop growing. We’ve been pushed out of the College. The abnormalities come in waves.”

Brelyna steps forward, “The bursts of anomalies are coming closer and closer together. The diameter of the Eye’s aura is going to expand soon.”

“Then we need to push inside now,” Onmund reasons. “Before Ancano gains any more ground.”

“Does the Nord have a plan?” J’Zargo asks.

Onmund shakes his head, “We’ve fought the anomalies before. They're not the problem. We need to be able to use the Staff on the Eye of Magnus itself, which means getting inside.”

J’Zargo scoffs, “You run, J’Zargo follows.”

Rufus interjects, “You mean, I run.” He pulls up his mask before unsheathing his daggers. “Try to keep up, Mages,” he taunts.

Turning, Rufus runs disappears into the fog. Onmund returns the Staff to his back, freeing his hands to cast. He's the next to submerge himself in the aura, chasing after Rufus. Behind him, he can hear the boots of the others stomping against the ramp. 

Rufus catches the fickle attention of most of the anomalies. In the aura, Onmund cannot always clearly see the way ahead. But Rufus talks the whole way, a never ending stream of, “come on, this way, keep up!” to alert the Mages to his position at the head of the pack.

Some of the anomalies slip through Rufus’ distraction. Attacking from the side, they try to crash into the pack of Mages. The Mages take turns dispatching the stragglers as efficiently as possible, cutting them down and continuing on after Rufus.

Onmund has no idea how many anomalies chase after Rufus. They are faster than he is, which means he must be taking damage. But none of his noises are in pain. So they push on.

Upon reaching the College’s courtyard, Onmund finds Rufus circling the center, trying to shoot arrows into the closest of the anomalies on his tail. He fells one with a quick shot, then turns to dash further into the archways that line the cloister. “About time you showed up!” he calls.

Rolling out of the way, Rufus removes himself from the blast radius of the Mage’s spells. Brylena, J’Zargo, and Onmund cast with sure hands, having used this tactic before. Tolfdir and the other instructors are more hesitant, but their spells follow in succession.

The anomalies sputter out, crashing into the snow. Leaving ephemeral ash behind, they remain difficult to understand. Now is not the time for analysis.

Rufus jogs up to the group of Mages, pulling down his mask. “I think that's most of them,” he looks over the group. “Where is Ervine?”

Tolfdir shakes his head. “She sacrificed herself, to get us out of danger, before the explosion that engulfed the College.” He has to shout to be heard over the shriek of the aura.

Rufus shows no signs of sorrow. 

“Come on, Onmund,” Rufus calls, “Let’s finish this.” He pulls up his mask.

Tolfdir comes with them, his hands raised and ready. Rufus pushes open the door, leading them inside.

The Eye floats in the center of the room, bloated, grotesque. The etched panels, that Onmund once found quite beautiful, are distended, the fog of the aura thick between its seams, swirling in a choking mist.

Onmund can smell it again, the stench that made him so ill before, even before the Eye ruptured into pieces. The strength of it makes him recoil.

Ancano does not even acknowledge their arrival, keeping his gaze fixed on the Eye. The light off of it is so bright, Onmund cannot look at it for long, but Ancano stares, funneling magic from his hands back into the Eye, the aura ghosting around Ancano’s body, a gale rustling through his robes.

Onmund raises the Staff of Magnus, aiming it towards the Eye. The crystal, already alight, starts to strobe, syphoning power from the Eye, trapping it back in the Staff. The rod trembles in Onmund’s hands, shuddering as it absorbs excess power from the Eye. Onmund worries it too may burst. As the Staff fills, the Eye closes, its plates starting to click back into place and the aura diminishing.

“What have you done?” Ancano shouts, turning his attention from the Eye to Onmund. Reaching out his hand, Ancano prepares to strike.

But before he can, Rufus comes up behind him, slicing his dagger across Ancano’s throat. 

Ancano crumples to the ground, his head bouncing off the stone with a sharp crack.

He's dead well before that, though.

Rufus sheathes his dagger. He turns away.

It is over.

“What about the Eye?” Onmund asks, to no one in particular.

When Onmund turns to face the Eye, Quaranir stands before him, where previously there was only empty space.

“We always knew you would succeed.” Quaranir addresses Onmund directly. “Your victory here justifies our belief in you.”

Onmund frowns. So many times his visions from the Order spoke of uncertainty, of doubt. Now Quaranir claims advanced knowledge of this very event.

“You have proven yourself more than worthy to guide the College of Winterhold.”

Shaking off the suggestion, Onmund asks, “What is to become of the Eye?” The blasted thing has caused them more than enough trouble already. While it remains closed for the moment, Onmund fears the light skittering through the seams.

“The Eye has grown unstable. It cannot remain here. The world is not yet ready for such power,” Quaranir explains, “We will remove it from the College, and safeguard it, until the time comes. You now have the opportunity to maintain your College, and carry on with your lives, Arch-Mage.”

Quaranir turns to assist his companions, raising their arms towards the Eye. Onmund watches as the Eye floats a fraction higher above the ground before it, and the three members of the Order, blink out, vanishing from the Hall. Just as suddenly as they had appeared, they're gone.

Onmund blinks, trying to get his bearings. Tolfdir’s hand is on his shoulder. He realizes he still holds the Staff, though the Eye is gone. The relic is quiet now.

“Well then, I do believe that the Psijic Order has it right,” Tolfdir says, clapping Onmund on the back.

For some reason, Onmund thought he alone could see Quaranir. But it was not a vision then? The Order were here in the flesh. What magics could they have possibly used? “We never should have brought the Eye here,” Onmund agrees.

Tolfdir laughs, “Yes, yes, that too. But I meant your new appointment. There is no one more deserving to be Arch-Mage, in my opinion.”

Onmund had forgotten. He honestly had. “You cannot be serious,” he balks. “I'm still only an apprentice.”

Tolfdir shakes his head. “The position of Arch-Mage is not intended for the finest spellcaster, the most naturally gifted prodigy. It is meant for the person who values ingenuity, leadership, scholarship. Have you not demonstrated all three, and more, in your quest?”

“Tolfdir,” Onmund freezes, “I can't. I couldn't have done any of this without Rufus.” Onmund scans the Hall, but sees no sign of Rufus. He must have slipped out after Ancano died.

“If they Psijics intended the honor for the Dragonborn, they would have stated so quite plainly. They did not. It is you they chose. Yes, you traveled with Rufus, fought beside him, but your contributions to the College were not outmatched by his.”

“This is insanity,” Onmund whispers, as Tolfdir presses the key to the Arch-Mage’s quarters into his palm.

\--

Onmund stands in front of the circular garden, filled with alchemy reagents, some of which he's never seen before. The Arch-Mage’s quarters, his quarters, now. He is the Arch-Mage. This all feels a dream.

He should learn to brew potions. It's not a skill he ever practiced. He’ll ask Urag about some books to start. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

No one has seen Rufus since the battle with Ancano. No one saw him leave. Onmund feels sick to his stomach, because Rufus promised him this, that once the Eye was dealt with, he would leave.

There are no more Thalmor at the College. No more threat within their walls. Rufus is the Dragonborn, many voices call out to him for help.

Still, Onmund does not want to believe that Rufus would leave without saying goodbye.

But no one has seen him. No one saw. If Onmund didn't know better, he might think it all a joke.

Stepping away from the garden, Onmund makes his way towards the bedroom. The quarters are massive, too large, really. Even though there are tables and artefacts and supplies crammed into every corner, it feels too empty. Onmund has had about enough of artefacts.

He takes the Saarthal Amulet off, tossing it onto the enchantment table. The Psijic Order can leave him well enough alone from now on.

Opening the wooden wardrobe, Onmund looks at his new robes, gray and white, lined with snowy fur. He wonders if he really has to wear them? Or if he can keep the apprentice style he much prefers? This is all happening too fast.

He sits on the edge of his bed, staring into the wardrobe, as if it holds the answers to his endless questions. No matter how many solutions he turns up, he's still left wanting.

Onmund does not sleep well.

\--

Rufus does not return to the College, not the next day, or week, or the week following that. Onmund receives a package from Solitude, but it only contains robes from the tailor. Ones that are actually long enough and don't run out of fabric mid-shin. Now, he supposes, his excuses about not wearing the proper robes will cease to hold.

Tolfdir helps him a great deal, with learning the ins and outs of College administration. Onmund half-jokes that Tolfdir should have been Arch-Mage, but it's not really a joke, because he really should have been.

Onmund has to order parchment and glass bottles, fabrics and food. He signs off on everything before their requests are bustled off to couriers who fulfill their orders, returning with carts heavy laden with supplies. Then Onmund signs again to confirm he's received the shipment. He never uses his family name.

By the third week, he gets an idea. He asks the courier in front of him, “Can you get a message to the Dragonborn?” The snow comes down in their hair like flower petals.

The Dunmer girl, and she really is a girl, maybe just into adulthood, is bundled up tightly in a fur robe so puffy it swallows up her tiny body. She's delivered a box full of candles, and a second container of unmolded wax. “We can get anything to anyone. But of course! You'd be surprised how many letters he receives.”

Onmund isn't the least bit surprised. “So you have seen him?” Onmund’s heart aches, “recently?”

“I didn't, but my friend Mira did. Saw him four or five days ago now. Picked up a package in Falkreath,” she nods with firm finality. 

“Wait a moment? I wish to send a letter to him.”

“Sure, sure. Only, mind if I wait inside?”

Onmund points to the Hall of Attainment, “Wait in there, and you're welcome to have something warm to drink. I'd recommend bothering J’Zargo about it. He makes better tea than Brelyna.”

“Cheers!” she bounces off towards the hall. 

Returning to his quarters, Onmund pulls ink and parchment from his desk drawer. He sits down to write, unsure still what exactly he should say.

He begins:

_Rufus,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I've heard bits and pieces, rumors really, about what you've been doing._

Onmund scratches out every word, save for Rufus’ name. It's all too proper, too sterile. Cursing, he starts on a new page:

_Rufus,_

_Why did you leave me? I never got to say goodbye._

That won't do either.

Attempt three:

_Rufus,_

_I hope you are safe, and well._

_I don't know if you've heard. Maybe not. But I've been made Arch-Mage of the College. I spend every day in abject terror of the responsibilities laid before me. But I haven't run us into the ground yet._

_Good luck, Rufus. Know I will always be your friend. You are always welcome here at the College._

_Please come back._

He scratches the last line out, drawing a precise box around the text and filling it in with dark ink. He signs his name beneath so it is rendered indecipherable.

_Onmund, Arch-Mage, College of Winterhold._

\--

Another courier arrives. A Nord man, well past forty. His nose is bright red from the cold. He brings cabbage, potatoes, and leeks for the kitchens. Onmund signs for the delivery. Today, he has his request ready.

“I'd like to procure an Amulet of Mara,” he explains. Holding out his hand, he passes the man enough coin to cover costs. “Please have it delivered here.” Riften is very far away, and certainly an Amulet can be found closer to Winterhold.

The courier smiles at him, “The new Arch-Mage looking for someone to keep his bed warm, eh?” His teeth are in remarkable condition, given his age. 

Onmund blushes, stumbling over his explanation, “It's not like that.”

That only spurs the courier to laughter, pounding his fist against his chest to calm the spasms, “Look at you! You should not be afraid to take what you want.”

Onmund still feels quite silly.

\--

Within the week, an Amulet of Mara arrives. An Argonian delivers it, holding out her hand for something more. Not knowing what to do, Onmund gives her extra gold, thanking her for the prompt delivery.

Onmund inspects the Amulet closely, turning it over and over in his hands. It's I'm marvelous condition, though he knows sometimes Amulets are reused. 

He wraps the Amulet back in the velvet pouch it arrived inside and tucks it into his bedside drawer. They’ll be time to put it on, if...when...if, Rufus returns to the College.

There have been no letters back.

Though he has received no response, Onmund writes Rufus another letter. He's heard some rumors about the Dragonborn’s exploits. They never use Rufus’ name.

_Rufus,_

_I hope you are well._

_I've been settling into my new position. It's more paperwork than magic. Sometimes I think that's why Tolfdir didn't want it. But those blasted Psijics! They thought I was fit for dealing with inventory, I suppose._

_I guess I should be thankful things are so quiet here. It's not as if I want another tragedy. Only it would be nice if I had more time to study. It's rather awkward, attending lectures as a student one hour and playing Arch-Mage the next. But it cannot be helped._

_When I went to the tavern, someone said they saw you, just outside of Solitude. You were fighting a dragon, alone. I don't know if I should believe them._

_If I could take the pain for you, I would._

At least the box he draws around the last line, scratching out the text, will match his first letter.

_Onmund, Arch-Mage, College of Winterhold_

\--

No return letter. No sign of Rufus.

Onmund graduates to Adept spells. 

J’Zargo teases him that it is about time, “It would be best, that you at least reach Master, before we entertain any guests from the Southern Mage Guilds.” As much as he balks at Onmund’s lack of skill, J’Zargo only passed his Adept exams the week prior. Onmund is gaining on him quickly. Brelyna has them both beat by a mile. But that's to be expected.

They lounge around the Hall of Attainment, trying to entertain each other. Onmund could invite them up to his quarters. But they get sort of quiet and strange when they're there. The teasing stops. Maybe because being in the Arch-Mage’s rooms makes the fact Onmund outranks them feel real. Here, it can just be pretend.

“So I've been experimenting again,” Brelyna claps her hands together, “who wants to be my victim….er….subject? Assistant!”

Onmund rolls his eyes, “Give it a week. We have a new class of Novices coming in.”

“Really?” Brelyna beams. There's something wicked in her enthusiasm. “What are they like?”

“I've only exchanged letters with them,” Onmund explains. “Aren did most of the work recruiting before he died. But they are four, an Imperial from the Reach, twin Bosmer from Riften, and an Altmer from Solitude.”

J’Zargo taps his finger to his lip, “So, fresh meat.”

“We shouldn't talk about them like this,” Onmund winces.

“No, but I hope one of them dredges up an even more improbable, potentially world-ending cataclysm. Succeeds against the odds, and steals your job,” Brelyna says.

“Why, exactly, would you want that?”

Brelyna shrugs her shoulders, “Variety.”

They all laugh.

\--

_Rufus,_

_I miss you._

If he blacks that out, there's nothing left to the letter.

_Your friend,_

_Onmund_

He doesn't send this letter, putting it in the bedside drawer, next to the Amulet of Mara.

_Rufus,_

_I hope you are well._

_I heard that you were seen ascending to the Throat of the World. Don't let the Graybeards turn you into someone you're not. You're better than that. No matter what they say._

_Onmund, Arch-Mage, College of Winterhold._

He has not seen Rufus in eleven weeks.

\--

Someone is in Onmund’s bedroom. He does not know until their weight depresses the side of his mattress.

On reflex, he sits up, readying his hands to cast in defense. But he sees the mask first, then Rufus’ dark eyes.

“Talos, you scared me.”

Rufus leaves his mask over his mouth. “I did not expect to find you alone.”

Onmund rubs the sleep out of his eyes, “What? Why wouldn't I be alone?”

“Where is your spouse?” Rufus asks, as if that question makes sense.

“What?” Onmund worries this is only a dream. But he can smell Rufus here with him, a scent he didn't notice until it was gone.

“The Amulet of Mara? I assumed you were taking a spouse.”

Onmund asks, “How do you know about the Amulet?”

“I sent it to you.” Rufus runs his hand along the bedsheets, smoothing them out. “There was a notice in the tavern at Dawnstar. That the Arch-Mage of Winterhold was looking for an Amulet of Mara. I assumed, after I left, you were able to continue on with your life.” Rufus pulls at a loose thread in the quilting. “I found one for you, and sent it on to Winterhold. I hoped it would bring you happiness. You never spoke of them in your letters, but I thought, maybe you didn't want to hurt me. But I'm happy, if you're happy.”

“Rufus?”

“Are you happy, Onmund?”

“Take off your mask, Rufus.”

Rufus pulls his mask down off his mouth, letting it hang around his neck.

“Are you really this, ugh” Onmund doesn't even know the word. He reaches across Rufus’ lap, pulling open the bedside drawer. He fishes around inside, pulling out the Amulet and slipping it over his own neck. It falls heavy against his sternum. “I wanted this for when you returned. If you returned. This is the first time I've put it on.”

Rufus’ eyes are wide, hauntingly bright in the darkness. They shouldn't be so bright, they're too dark to really catch the light. 

“Onmund.”

“Rufus?” He’s horribly exposed like this, with Rufus perched on the side of the bed and the Amulet around his neck. Rufus could hang him with this, if he wanted. Of all things, after all this time, Onmund is not really expecting Rufus’ trepidation. But when Rufus says nothing, each and every crinkled doubt Onmund has catalogued before comes rushing back. Rufus is the Dragonborn. Rufus is important, to so, so many people.

But at least, now, Onmund is not nothing.

Rufus buries his face in his hands. “I cannot. Stendarr, I want to. I want, I want. But I cannot.” He is near hysterical, a mixture of laughter and tears. “I wanted nothing more. Each and every time you called me a friend. I wanted to scream in your face. ‘Is that all I am to you?’ But now I realize, I realize that I should not have even been that much to you.”

“What do you mean?” Onmund runs his hand down Rufus’ arm. “What is stopping you? Stopping us?”

In a way, Onmund already knows.

“I am stopping us. I cannot let who I am damage your reputation. Especially not after….For now, I am adored, because they call me Dragonborn. But, in time, they will call me by another name. And I will not let it ruin you.”

“What will they call you?”

Rufus is little more than a voice in the darkness.

“Listener.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! I really had a great time working on this fic and getting this idea out there.
> 
> Comments and kudos very much appreciated!
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


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